-—s,    ' 


AND  STEP  BY  STEP  ia  HE   FORWARD   WENT, 

UNTIL,  ALAS  !  TO  HEAVEN  SENT  ! 

His  NAME  AND  FAME  WILL  LAST  AS  LONG  ; 

AS    BOOKS    HAVE    WORDS,  AND    BIRDS    A    SONG. 

—  WAKK  HUHBKI.I.,  wtnton  Place,  O. 


NOTE. 

THIS  collection  of  one  hundred  and  sixty  tributes  results  from  a  desire  to 
reprint  in  book-form  the  twelve  poems  enterprisingly  got  together  by  the 
proprietors  of  the  Boston  Daily  Globe.  The  intention  was  to  print  only  the 
twelve  from  the  Globe ;  but  so  many  persons  throughout  this  country  and 
Europe  had  offered  their  tributes  to  the  memory  of  our  President,  that  the 
publisher  decided  to  enlarge  the  volume,  that  it  might  better  serve  as  a  fair 
expression  of  the  feelings  of  the  American  and  kindred  peoples  at  a  time  of 
wide-spread  grief.  The  little  volume  now  presented  does  not  contain  one 
half  the  number  of  poetical  tributes  already  in  print;  bxit  those  it  does  contain 
are  so  numerous  and  so  varied,  and  the  authors'  homes  are  so  far  apart,  that 
the  publisher  hopes  the  collection  will  well  serve  its  purpose. 

Notwithstanding  considerable  effort  has  been  spent  in  trying  to  obtain 
the  authors'  names  and  addresses,  many  could  not  be  obtained ;  and  so  their 
verses  have  been  reprinted  without  their  having  an  opportunity  to  revise 
them.  Most  of  the  poems,  however,  have  been  revised  by  the  authors. 
and,  as  a  result,  many  differ  from  what  they  were  when  first  printed. 

Due  credit  has  been  given  to  original  sources  of  poems  in  every  case  where 
it  was  known,  or  supposed.  But  as  some  newspapers  clip  from  other  publi- 
cations, without  credit,  this  collection,  probably,  has  given  credit  in  several 
cases,  not  to  the  publications  in  which  the  poems  first  appeared,  but  to  those 
in  which  they  were  reprinted. 

At  the  request  of  two  of  the  authors,  their  poems  were  omitted;  but 
nearly  all  who  returned  their  proof-sheets  have  cordially  approved  and 
gratifyingly  encouraged  the  publication  of  the  collected  poems. 


THE 


POETS'    TRIBUTES 


TO 


GARFIELD 


A    COLLECTION    OF    MANY    MEMORIAL    POEMS 


GHftfj  portrait  auto 


CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 
PUBLISHED    BY    MOSES    KING 

HAEVAED  SQUARE 

1882 


"  COMMBND  me  to  the  friend  that  comes 

When  I  am  8ad  and  lone, 
And  makes  the  anguish  of  my  heart 

The  suffering  of  his  own ; 
Who  coldly  shuns  the  glittering  throng 

At  pleasure's  gay  levee, 
And  conies  to  gild  a  sombre  hour 

And  give  his  heart  to  me. 

He  hears  me  count  my  sorrows  o'er; 

And  when  the  task  is  done 
He  freely  gives  me  all  I  ask,  — 

A  sigh  for  every  one. 
He  cannot  wear  a  smiling  face 

When  mine  is  touched  with  gloom, 
But  like  the  violet  seeks  to  cheer 

The  midnight  with  perfume. 

Commend  me  to  that  generous  heart 

Which  like  the  pine  on  high 
Uplifts  the  same  unvarying  brow 

To  every  change  of  sky ; 
Whose  friendship  does  not  fade  away 

When  wintry  tempests  blow, 
But  like  the  winter's  icy  crown 

Looks  greener  through  the  snow. 

He  flies  not  with  the  flitting  stork, 

That  seeks  a  southern  sky, 
But  linger*  where  the  wounded  bird 

Ilath  laid  Mm  down  to  die. 
Oh,  such  a  friend !     He  is  in  truth, 

What  e'er  his  lot  may  be, 
A  rainbow  on  the  storm  of  life, 

An  anchor  on  its  sea. 

—  Garfield's  Favorite  Verses 


K<r 


INDEX 


PAGK 

ILLUSTRATED  TITLE-PAGE I 

NOTE II 

GARPIELD'S  FAVORITE  VERSES 2 

INDEX 3 

PORTRAIT Facing  page  7 

BIOGRAPHY 7 

GARFIELD'S  FAVORITE  HYMN 21 

AFTER  THE  BURIAL 22 

THE  TRIBUTES  FROM  THE  POETS 25 

POEMS  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  BOSTON  DAILY  GLOBE  :  — 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 28 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 31 

H.  BERNARD  CARPENTER 33 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY 33 

CHARLES  TURNER  DAZEY 36 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE 37 

KATE  TANNATT  WOODS 38 

LOUISA  PARSONS  HOPKINS 40 

MARIE  E.  BLAKE 41 

MINOT  J.  SAVAGE 42 

FRANCIS  A.  NICHOLS 45 

JOSEPH  W.  NYE 47 

POEMS  WRITTEN  FOR  OTHER  PAPERS:— 

J.  W.  TURNER East  Boston  Advocate 49 

CALEB  D.  BRADLEE Boston  Advertiser 50 

ERIC  S.  ROBERTSON New-  York  Herald 51 

CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES Boston  Transcript 51 

ANOHYMOUS London  Weekly 52 

J.  G.  HOLLAND 52 

ANONYMOUS Frank  Leslie's  Illust.  Newspaper  .  53 

MRS.  L.  M.  SWAN Boston  Transcript 54 

GEORGE  A.  PARKHURST Lowell  Weekly  Journal 56 

D.  GILBERT  DEXTER Cambridge  Tribune 56 

ANONYMOUS Boston  Commonwealth 57 

HENRY  C.  DANE Boston  Transcript 58 

SUSIE  V.  ALDRICH Boston  Home  Journal 60 

ANNA  FORD  PIPER Boston  Transcript 61 


4  INDEX. 

PI  ncns  WRITTEN  FOR  OTHER  PAPERS: —  PAGE 

EMMA  POMEROY  EATON Boston  Transcript 62 

D.  P .     The  Capital 62 

H.  L.  HASTINGS Boston  Journal 65 

HEZEKIAH  Buf  TERWORTH Cincinnati  Gazette 66 

DB.  THOMAS  H.  CHANDLER Boston  Transcript 69 

ANONYMOUS London  Spectator 69 

ANONYMOUS   .    .    .    .  ' Andrews'  American  Queen     ...  70 

EVA  MC-XAIB  PARSONS Louisville  Courier-Journal     ...  70 

WALT  WHITMAN J.  K.  Osgood  &  Co.'s  new  volume    .  71 

ANONYMOUS Puck 72 

JAMES  FRANKLIN  FITTS Philadelphia  North-American  .     .  73 

E.  8.  BROOKS Publishers'  Weekly 74 

ARTHUR  N.  WILLCUTT Boston  Post 74 

JOHN  READE Montreal  Gazette 75 

LILIAN  WHITING 'Cincinnati  Commercial      ....  76 

C.  H.  C New-  York  Tribune 77 

W.  D.  KELLY Boston  Pilot 79 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW    .    .    .     The  Independent 81 

MRS.  FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 81 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH Harper's  Weekly 83 

ANONYMOUS Springfield  Republican      ....  84 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP New-York  Tribune 84 

HJALMAR  HJORTH  BOYESEN The  Independent 85 

WILL  CARLETON Farm  Ballads 86 

MARTIN  FARQUHAR  TUPPER New-  York  Evening  Post     ....  87 

PAUL  H.  HAYNE 87 

AUTHOR  OF  "  JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN  " 88 

ALFRED  NEVIN,  D.D 89 

PROF.  DAVID  SWING ».    .  90 

PROF.  G.  T.  R.  KNORR      . 90 

CHARLES  J.  BEATTIE The  Inter-Ocean 91 

ANONYMOUS London  Punch 91 

ANONYMOUS London  Punch 92 

PROF.  THOMAS  NELSON  HASKELL 93 

WAKE  HUBBELL 94 

FAY  HEMPSTEAD »4 

SARAH  DE  WOLF  GAMWELL Springfield  Republican     ....  95 

THEODORE  WATTS London  Athenaeum 96 

D.  A.  CASSERLY New-York  Evening  Mail    ....  96 

BARRINGTON  LODGE Albany  Journal 97 

W.  H.  VENABLE »8 

REV.  W.  C.  RICHARDS Chicago  Standard 98 

FANNIE  ISABELLE  SHERRICK St.  Louis  Republican 99 

EMILY  H.  LELAND The  Wisconsin 100 

A.  A.  HOPKINS Rochester  American  Rural  Home  .  101 


INDEX.  5 

POEMS  WRITTEN  FOB  OTHER  PAPERS: —  PAGE 

ELIZABETH  YATES  RICHMOND The  Inter-Ocean 101 

ELLEN  H.  RUSSELL Troy  Times 102 

O.  EVERTS 103 

CARRIE  A.  SPAULDINO Springfield  Republican     ....  103 

JAMES  B.  KENYON New-  York  Home  Journal  ....  104 

W.  E.  M 105 

EDWARD  F.  HOVET The  Alia  California 105 

LOUISE  V.  BOYD Indianapolis  Journal 106 

W.  E.  PABOR Denver  Republican 106 

J.  E.  Fox Chicago  Times 107 

CHARLES  J.  BEATTIE      . 108 

MINNIE  B.  NOTES Springfield  Republican 109 

SARAH  J.  BURKE New-fork  Tribune 109 

LEWIS  J.  CIST 110 

8.  L.  LITTLE Providence  Sunday  Star  ....  110 

MARTIN  MACMASTER       Atlanta  Constitution Ill 

L.  D.  COLE Boston  Traveller Ill 

T.  W.  PARSONS,  JR 112 

MRS.  M.  E.  W.  SHERWOOD Boston  Traveller 112 

Miss  ARABELLA  ROOT The  Inter-Ocean 113 

BEN  VAIL,  JR Washington  Republican    ....  113 

ANONYMOUS The  Pilgrim  Press 114 

E.  P.  PARKER Hartford  Courant 114 

J.  W.  Ross 116 

ADDISON  F.  BROWNE Boston  Traveller 116 

FLORENCE  I.  DUNCAN Philadelphia  Press 116 

COL.  W.  A.  TAYLOR 117 

E.  P Denver  Republican 118 

CHARLES  L.  HILDRETH New-York  Evening  Telegram     .     .  119 

ANDREW  J.  KENNEDY St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch     ....  120 

E.  C.  POMEROY Buffalo  Commercial  Advertiser  .    .  120 

CHARLOTTE  L.  SEAVER Buffalo  Express 122 

H.  S.  M Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin      .  123 

ELLA  WHEELER Chicago  Tribune 123 

ANONYMOUS Buffalo  Express 124 

B.  B Cincinnati  Commercial     ....  124 

LINN  BOYD  PORTER Cambridge  Chronicle 125 

CAPT.  SAM  WHITING 125 

JOHN  BANVARD Neic-York  Mail 126 

GEORGE  G.  SMITH Springfield  Republican     ....  127 

ANONYMOUS Hartford  Times    .......  127 

REV.  CHARLES  H.  Rows Cambridge  Tribune 128 

H.  N.  CLEMENT 129 

REV.  W.  G.  HASKELL Lewiston  Journal 130 

MRS.  NELLIE  FKEW  MILLER Pittsburgh  Gazette 130 


6  INDEX. 

POEMS  WRITTEN  TOR  OTHER  PAPERS: —  PAGE 

0.  B.  BOTSFORD 131 

EDWIN  DWIGHT Springfield  Republican     ....    132 

B.  K.  KERNIGHAM Toronto  Evening  News 133 

DR.  ABRAHAM  COLES Newark.  Daily  Advertiser  ....    134 

PELEG  MCFARLIN Middleborough  Gazette 135 

THOMAS  MACKELLAR Philadelphia  Times 136 

CHARLES  G.  FALL 137 

C.  B.  BOTSFORD 138 

C.  A.  L Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin      .    139 

GEORGE  FRANCIS  DAWSON 140 

J.  W London  Graphic 141 

JOHN  SAVAHY Washington  Gazette 142 

CLARA  O.  CASSELL Chicago  Tribune 142 

GEORGE  C.  WOOLLAHD Cincinnati  Gazette 143 

GARLAND  TURELL Cleveland  Plain  Dealer 144 

CAPT.  HENRY  E.  MEAD,  O.N.G Christ  Church  Register 144 

T.  G.  LA  MOILLE Cleveland  Plain  Dealer     ....    145 

JOHN  M.  IVES Lockport  Daily  Union 145 

MRS.  E.  T.  HOUSH Louisville  Commercial 146 

W.  J.  H.  HOGAN Chicago  Tribune 147 

ANNIE  D.  DARLING Boston  Transcript 148 

MRS.  VIRGINIA  DIMITRY  RUTH New  Orleans  Democrat 148 

C.  B.  SCHLIE Cincinnati  Enquirer 149 

KATHERINE  HANSON  AUSTIN Providence  Journal 150 

ESTHER  BEHNON  CARPENTER Providence  Journal 150 

JOHN  SAVAHY Washington  Gazette 151 

REV.  JOSEPH  A.  ELY 153 

JOHN  SAVAKY A  volume  of  poems    ......    154 

JOHN  SAVARY A  volume  of  poems 154 

JOHN  SAVARY A  volume  of  poems 155 

JOHN  SAVAHY A  volume  of  poems 155 

JOHN  SAVARY 156 

W.  E.  H The  College  Student 157 

WALTER  KIEFFER Philadelphia  Press 158 

ARTHUR  WILKINSON  BRICK 159 

SARAH  K.  BOLTON The  Independent 160 

RET.  K.  VANSANT 161 

LUCY  M.  CREEMER New  Haven  Register 162 

WILLIAM  T.  HORNADAY Rochester  Democrat  and  Chronicle.    163 

J.  G.  DE  STYAK San  Francisco  Evening  Call ...    164 

CHARLES  J.  BEATTIE Chicago  Tribune    .......    165 

HAROLD  BOUGHTON Century  [Scribner's]  Magazine  .    .    166 

JOHN  OWEN Boston  Transcript 166 

Louis  DYER 167 

A.  BRONSON  ALCOTT Springfield  Republican     ....    168 


THE  POETS'  TRIBUTES  TO  GARFIELD. 


BIOGRAPHY. 


FROM    THE    CRADLE. 

A    SCRAP    OF     GENEALOGY. THE     BIRTHPLACE.  FROM     INFANCY    TO 

BOYHOOD. 

JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD,  the  deceased  President  of  the  United 
States,  was  born  in  the  little  town  of  Orange,  Ohio,  Nov.  19,  1831, 
and  came  from  New-England  stock.  On  the  paternal  side  his 
ancestry  runs  bac-k  to  Edward  Garfield,  who  in  1635  was  recorded 
as  one  of  the  proprietors  of  what  is  now  the  town  of  Watertown, 
Mass.  His  mother  was  a  descendant  of  one  of  those  -Huguenots 
whom  the  famous  "  •  Edict  of  Nantes ' '  drove  from  their  beloved 
France  to  seek  religious  freedom  in  the  New  World.  From  the 
Garfields  he  inherited  physical  and  moral  strength  ;  while  from  his 
mother  he  received  that  intellectual  vigor  and  those  fine  mental 
qualities  which  have  marked  in  many  generations  the  descendants 
of  Maturin  Ballou.  President  Garfield's  birthplace  was  a  log- 
cabin,  in  a  wilderness  some  fifteen  miles  from  that  modest  home 
which  he  left  in  order  to  take  up  his  residence  at  the  White  House. 
He  was  the  youngest  of  four  children,  who  were  left  fatherless 
eighteen  months  after  his  birth.  The  widowed  mother  held  her 
homestead  farm,  and  her  children  together  upon  it.  Thomas,  the 
oldest,  and  the  only  other  boy,  was  a  manly  little  fellow,  and  did 
what  he  could  to  help,  while  the  sisters  also  made  themselves  use- 
ful in  the  household.  At  the  early  age  of  three  }Tears  James 


8  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

began  to  attend  school  in  a  little  log-schoolhouse,  the  site  for 
which  had  been  given  by  Mrs.  Garfield.  He  was  an  apt  scholar, 
and  at  the  age  of  eight  years  was  a  good  reader,  speller,  and 
writer.  Books  were  his  delight ;  and  among  the  works  with  which 
he  became  thoroughly  acquainted  during  his  boyhood  were  "  Jose- 
phus "  and  Goodrich's  "History  of  the  United  States."  With 
the  Bible  he  was  familiar  from  the  first ;  for  Mrs.  Garfield,  a 
devoted  adherent  of  the  "  Campbellite  "  faith,  was  fully  mindful 
of  her  children's  spiritual  interests,  and  carefully  implanted  in 
their  minds  the  truths  of  the  Christian  religion.  He  remained  at 
home  until  he  was  sixteen  years  old,  pursued  his  studies  with  as 
much  vigor  as  ever,  did  chores  about  his  mother's  place,  worked 
for  other  people  as  he  had  opportunity,  and  proved  himself  a  capa- 
ble and  industrious  lad.  He  was  about  seventeen  years  old  when 
he  finally  started  to  enter  upon  the  seafaring  life  which  he  had 
long  dreamed  of.  Arriving  at  Cleveland,  to  ship  before  the  mast 
upon  some  of  the  lake  craft,  circumstances  compelled  him  to 
abandon  the  plan ;  and  he  was  led  to  become  a  driver  on  a  canal 
tow-path.  As  driver,  and  then  as  boatman,  he  worked  on  the 
Ohio  Canal  several  months. 


TO  YOUTH  AND  MANHOOD. 

OBTAINING   AN    EDUCATION. CAREER    AS    A     TEACHER.  THE     FIRST 

POLITICAL    SPEECH. 

In  March,  1849,  young  Garfield  became  a  student  in  the  Geauga 
Seminary,  a  Freewill  Baptist  institution  at  Chester.  At  the  end 
of  the  term  he  worked  at  haying  and  carpentering.  During  his 
first  year  he  paid  all  his  expenses,  and  had  a  few  dollars  left. 
Teaching  was  his  occupation  during  the  interval  between  his  first 
and  second  year  at  Chester ;  and  as  a  teacher  he  proved  himself 
a  master  in  his  school.  It  was  one  of  those  ''district"  schools, 
not  yet  things  of  the  past,  even  in  New  England,  the  male  pupils 
in  which  regard  the  teacher  as  a  natural  enemy.  Garfield  proved 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  9 

himself  the  physical  as  well  as  the  intellectual  superior  of  lads 
committed  to  his  charge,  and  ruled  them  as  well  as  taught  them. 
After  his  course  at  Chester,  young  Garfield,  in  the  fall  of  1851, 
entered  the  Hiram  Institute,  where  the  course  of  instruction  was 
considerably  more  advanced  than  any  which  he  had  yet  taken. 
Devoting  himself  to  his  studies  with  the  vigor  which  had  marked 
his  efforts  thus  far,  teaching  in  the  winters  and  keeping  up  his  own 
work  steadily,  he  found  himself  in  June,  1854,  not  only  ready  to 
enter  college,  but  to  enter  the  junior  class.  He  had  paid  his  way, 
and  had  saved  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  toward  defray- 
ing his  expenses  at  college.  So  he  entered  the  junior  class  of 
Williams  College,  in  this  State,  in  the  fall  of  1854,  and  graduated 
in  185G  with  the  metaphysical  honors  of  the  class.  He  was  now 
twenty-five  ;  and,  as  the  result  of  his  constant  self-denying  toil  of 
nearly  twenty  years,  he  had  a  collegiate  education,  a  few  thread- 
bare clothes,  a  score  or  more  of  college  text-books,  his  diploma, 
and  a  debt  of  four  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  He  was  at  once 
elected  teacher  of  Latin  and  Greek  in  the  college  at  Hii'am.  The 
college  was  poor  and  in  debt,  but  Garfield  threw  all  his  energies 
into  the  work  of  building  it  up.  He  soon  became  distinguished  as 
a  teacher,  and  students  from  far  and  near  flocked  to  Hiram.  In 
1858,  while  teacher  of  Latin  and  Greek  at  Hiram,  Garfield  was 
married  to  Miss  Lucretia  Rudolph,  his  former  pupil  at  Hiram  and 
schoolmate  at  Chester  Academy  ;  and  she  soon  proved  herself  a 
most  efficient  helpmeet.  In  185G  young  Garfield  entered  the 
arena  of  politics,  becoming  interested  in  the  Kansas-Nebraska 
affairs.  He  ranged  himself  in  the  ranks  of  the  Republican  party, 
and  became  an  earnest  worker  for  its  principles.  His  first  political 
speech  was  made  in  Williamstown,  in  185G,  just  before  he  left 
college,  in  behalf  of  Fremont,  the  first  Republican  candidate  for 
the  presidency.  His  first  vote  was  cast  at  the  presidential  election 
that  fall.  In  1859  he  was  elected  by  a  large  majority  to  the  Sen- 
ate of  Ohio  from  the  counties  of  Portage  and  Summit,  and,  though 
yet  scarcely  twenty-eight,  at  once  took  high  rank  as  a  man  unusu- 
ally well  informed  on  the  subjects  of  legislation,  and  effective  and 
powerful  in  debate.  His  most  intimate  friend  in  the  State  Senate 
was  J.  D.  Cox.  who  afterwards  became  a  major-general,  governor 


10  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   G  Alt  FIELD. 

of  the  State,  aud  Secretary  of  the  Interior.  The  two  young  senators 
roomed  together,  studied  together,  and  helped  each  other  in  the 
work  of  legislation.  Garfield  pushed  his  law-studies  forward,  and 
early  in  the  winter  of  1861  was  admitted  to  the  bar  of  the  Supreme 
Court. 


TO   THE   DEFENCE   OF   COUNTRY, 

WITH    VOICE    AND    ARM.  HISTORY    OF    GEN.    GARFIELD's 

SOLDIER    LIFE. 

When  the  secession  of  the  Southern  States  took  place,  Gar- 
field's  course  was  manly  and  outspoken.  He  was  serving  in  the 
State  Senate  when  hostilities  broke  out ;  and,  when  the  President's 
call  for  seventy- five  thousand  men  was  read  in  the  chamber,  amidst 
the  tumultuous  acclamation  of  the  assemblage,  he  moved  that 
twenty  thousand  troops  and  three  million  dollars  should  at  once  be 
voted  as  the  quota  of  the  State.  When  the  time  came  for  ap- 
pointing the  officers  for  the  Ohio  troops,  Gov.  Dennison  offered 
him  command  of  the  Forty-second  Infantry ;  but  he  modestly  de- 
clined on  account  of  his  lack  of  military  experience.  But  he  was 
willing  to  serve  in  a  less  responsible  capacity  ;  and,  resigning  the 
presidency  of  Hiram  College,  he  accepted  a  commission  as  lieu- 
tenant-colonel. A  few  weeks  later,  when  the  Forty-second  was 
organized,  he  yielded  to  the  universal  desire  of  its  officers,  and 
accepted  the  colonelcy.  The  regiment  took  the  field  in  Eastern 
Kentucky  in  December,  1861  ;  and  on  the  20th  of  that  month  Col. 
Garfield  was  assigned  to  the  command  of  the  Eighteenth  Brigade, 
and  was  ordered  by  Gen.  Buell  to  drive  Humphrey  Marshall  out  of 
the  Sandy  valley.  By  a  forced  march  he  reached  Marshall's  posi- 
tion near  Prestonburg  at  daybreak,  fell  upon  him  with  impetuosity, 
and,  after  a  sharp  fight,  forced  him  to  burn  his  baggage  and  re- 
treat into  Virginia.  Afterward  he  was  ordered  to  join  Buell's 
army,  which  was  then  on  its  way  to  re-enforce  Grant  at  Pittsburg 
Landing.  Thenceforward  for  a  time  the  military  career  of  Gen. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  11 

Gartield  was  merged  in  that  of  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland.  He 
held  no  separate  command  ;  and  hence  the  traces  of  his  great  mili- 
tary abilities  are  lost  in  the  general  operations  of  the  army,  or  only 
now  and  then  seen  in  the  complimentary  allusions  to  his  services 
which  were  so  often  made  by  his  superior  officers.  In  August, 
1862,  Gen.  Garfield's  health  failed,  and  he  was  sent  North  on  sick- 
leave.  As  he  was  about  leaving  for  home,  he  was  assigned,  by 
order  of  the  War  Department,  to  the  command  of  the  forces  at 
Cumberland  Gap ;  but  he  was  too  ill  to  accept  the  appointment. 
Upon  his  recovery  he  was  ordered  to  Washington,  and  detailed  as  a 
member  of  the  Fitz  John  Porter  court-martial,  which  occupied 
forty-five  days,  and  in  which  his  great  abilities  as  a  lawyer  and  a 
soldier  were  called  forth  and  freely  recognized.  When  the  court 
adjourned  in  January,  1863,  Gen.  Garfield  was  ordered  to  report 
to  Major-Gen.  Rosecrans,  commanding  the  Army  of  the  Cumber- 
land, then  at  Murfreesborough,  Tenn.,  who  made  him  chief  of  staff. 
He  remained  with  Gen.  Rosecrans  until  after  the  battle  of  Chicka- 
mauga,  which  was  his  last  event  of  prominence  in  military  life. 
For  his  ''gallant  conduct  and  important  services"  in  this  battle 
(where  he  wrote  every  order  but  one,  submitting  each  to  Gen. 
Robecrans,  only  to  have  them  forwarded  without  alteration),  he 
was  made  a  major-general.  This  happened  upon  Sept.  19,  1863. 


AS   A   STATESMAN. 

ELECTION    TO    CONGRESS.  A   THRILLING    INCIDENT.  THE    MAN    FOR 

THE   CRISIS. 

In  the  summer  of  1862  he  was-  elected  to  Congress  from  the 
nineteenth  district  in  Ohio.  At  that  time  everybody  supposed  the 
war  was  going  to  end  in  a  few  months.  Garfield  was  then  with 
his  command  in  Kentucky.  He  had  no  knowledge  of  any  such 
movement  in  his  behalf ;  and,  when  he  accepted  the  nomination, 
he  did  so  in  the  belief  that  the  Rebellion  would  be  subdued  before 


12  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

he  would  be  called  upon  to  take  his  seat  in  the  House  in  December, 
1863.  He  was  elected  by  a  majority  of  over  ten  thousand.  After 
his  promotion  to  be  major-general,  Gen.  Thomas  offered  him  the 
command  of  a  corps ;  but  President  Lincoln,  who  had  a  high  re- 
gard for  him,  urged  him  to  resign  his  commission,  and  take  his 
seat  in  Congress,  and  urged  so  strenuously  that  his  advice  pre- 
vailed. On  Dec.  5,  1863,  therefore,  Gen.  Garfield,  having  served 
in  the  army  more  than  a  year  after  his  election,  resigned,  and  took 
his  place  in  the  National  House.  Just  after  Lincoln's  assassina- 
tion, Garfield,  who  happened  to  be  in  New  York,  attended,  as  one 
of  the  speakers,  a  mass-meeting  held  in  Wall  Street,  to  consider 
the  fearful  situation.  Every  one  was  wild  with  excitement  and 
grief ;  and  the  people,  almost  driven  to  madness,  were  determined 
to  wreak  vengeance.  What  followed  is  best  described  in  the  lan- 
guage of  an  eye-witness  :  — 

' '  By  this  time  the  wave  of  popular  indignation  had  swelled  to 
its  crest.  Two  men  lay  bleeding  on  one  of  the  side  streets,  — one 
dead,  the  other  dying ;  one  on  the  pavement,  the  other  in  the  gut- 
ter. They  had  said  a  moment  before  that  Lincoln  '  ought  to  have 
been  shot  long  ago.'  They  were  not  allowed  to  say  it  again. 
Soon  two  long  pieces  of  scantling  stood  out  above  the  heads  of  the 
crowd,  crossed  at  the  top  like  the  letter  X,  and  a  looped  halter 
pendent  from  the  junction.  A  dozen  men  followed  its  slow  motion 
through  the  masses,  while  '  vengeance'  was  the  cry.  On  the  right, 
suddenly  the  shout  arose,  '  The  World  !'  '  The  World  !'  '  The  office 
of  the  World,  World  !'  and  a  movement  of  perhaps  eight  thousand 
or  ten  thousand  turning  their  faces  in  the  direction  of  that  building 
began  to  be  executed.  It  was  a  critical  moment.  What  might 
come,  no  one  could  tell,  did  that  crowd  get  in  front  of  that  office. 
The  police  and  military  would  have  availed  little,  or  been  too  late. 
A  telegram  had  just  been  read  from  Washington,  '  Seward  is 
dying.'  Just  then  a  man  stepped  forward  with  a  small  flag  in  his 
hand,  and  beckoned  to  the  crowd  :  '  Another  telegram  from  Wash- 
ington ;'  and  then,  in  the  awful  stillness  of  the  crisis,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  hesitation  of  the  crowd,  whose  steps  had  been  arrested 
for  a  moment,  a  right  arm  was  lifted  skyward,  and  a  voice  clear 
and  steady,  loud  and  distinct,  spoke  out,  '  Fellow-citizens,  clouds 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  13 

and  darkness  are  round  about  him.  His  pavilion  is  dark  waters 
and  thick  clouds  of  the  skies.  Justice  and  judgment  are  the 
establishment  of  his  throne.  Mercy  and  truth  shall  go  before  his 
face.  Fellow-citizens,  God  reigns,  and  the  government  at  Wash- 
ington still  lives."  The  effect  was  tremendous.  The  crowd  stood 
riveted  to  the  spot  in  awe,  gazing  at  the  motionless  orator,  and 
thinking  of  God  and  the  security  of  the  government  in  that  hour. 
As  the  boiling  wave  subsides  and  settles  to  the  sea  when  some 
strong  wind  beats  it  down,  so  the  tumult  of  the  people  sank  and 
became  still.  All  took  it  as  a  divine  omen.  It  was  a  triumph  of 
eloquence,  inspired  by  the  moment,  such  as  falls  to  but  one  man's 
lot,  and  that  but  once  in  a  century.  The  genius  of  Webster, 
Choate,  Everett,  or  Seward,  never  reached  it.  Demosthenes  never 
equalled  it.  What  might  have  happened,  had  the  surging  and 
maddened  mob  been  let  loose,  none  can  tell.  The  man  for  the 
crisis  was  on  the  spot,  more  potent  than  Napoleon's  guns  at  Paris. 
I  inquired  what  was  his  name.  The  answer  came  in  a  low  whis- 
per, '  It  is  Gen.  Garfield  of  Ohio.'  " 

Such  was  the  man  whom  the  nation  mourns.  His  pure  and  sim- 
ple manhood  was  his  chief  characteristic.  It  showed  itself  in 
all  his  works,  and  in  the  last  dark  hours  when  he  passed  through 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 


IN   THE   CHURCH. 

HIS    DEVOTION    TO    THE    CHRISTIAN    RELIGION. HIS    ENTHUSIASM    AS 

A    DISCIPLE. 

For  such  a  man,  only  a  pure  and  simple  religion  was  possible ; 
and  his  faith  was  like  his  life,  —  plain  and  unostentatious.  While 
a  student  at  Hiram  College  he  connected  himself  with  the  Church 
of  the  Disciples,  a  sect  founded  by  Alexander  Campbell,  and 
sometimes  called  "  Campbellites."  This  church  has  a  large  mem- 
bership in  West  Virginia,  Kentucky,  and  Southern  and  Eastern 


14  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD. 

Ohio.  "Its  principal  peculiarities  are  its  refusal  to  formulate  its 
beliefs  into  a  creed,  the  independence  of  each  denomination,  the 
hospitality  and  fraternal  feeling  of  the  members,  and  the  lack  of 
any  regular  ministry."  The  Scriptures  are  accepted  without  note 
or  comment,  and  any  member  can  address  the  assemblies.  Gar- 
field,  who  never  did  any  thing  by  halves,  entered  heartily  into 
the  work  of  this  communion,  and  soon  became  one  of  the  most 
prominent  members  of  the  church  at  Hiram.  This  connection 
with  the  sect  was  never  severed.  "Almost  every  day,"  said 
the  pastor  of  the  Mentor  Disciple  Church,  referring  to  a  revival- 
meeting  in  which  the  President  was  once  interested,  "I  would 
bring  some  one  in  who  was  hesitating,  to  let  Gen.  Garfield  talk 
to  him  about  some  point  on  which  he  was  in  doubt ;  and  the  Presi- 
dent always  made  it  clear  to  him.  One  morning  I  brought  in  a 
political  friend  of  the  general's,  and  a  prominent  local  politician, 
who  had  made  a  confession  of  religion  the  night  before.  When  I 
told  Gen.  Garfield  what  his  friend  had  done,  he  stepped  quickly 
forward,  and,  putting  one  arm  around  his  shoulder,  he  congratu- 
lated him,  and  then  taking  his  hand  said,  with  an  impressiveness 
which  I  can  never  forget,  '  This  is  right,  Christian.  Remember 
always  that  this  is  a  battle  where  we  struggle  on  to  a  beginning, 
but  that  it's  in  the  endless  cycles  of  eternity  that  our  lives  must  be 
rounded  and  perfected.' ' 


HIS  WIFE  AND   CHILDREN. 

BLEST  IN   EVERY  DOMESTIC    RELATION.  PICTURE  OF  A   MODEL  HOME. 

An  account  like  this  which  did  not  mention  the  noble  woman 
whose  heart,  of  all  sad  hearts  in  this  great  Republic  of  ours,  is  per- 
haps the  saddest  to-day,  would  indeed  be  incomplete.  He  met  her 
first  in  the  spring  of  1849,  at  Chester,  Ohio,  where  they  were  both 
pupils  at  an  academy.  She  was  then  seventeen  years  old :  that 
also  was  the  age  of  her  future  husband.  Her  name  was  Lucretia 
Rudolph.  Her  father,  Zebulon  Rudolph,  was  a  Maryland  farmer 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  15 

from  the  Sbenandoah  Valley.  Her  mother,  Arabella  Mason,  born 
in  Hartford,  Vt.,  was  the  scion  of  an  old  Connecticut  family. 
There  is  a  tradition  in  the  Rudolph  family,  that  one  of  Mrs.  Gar- 
field's  grand-uncles  was  the  brilliant  soldier  Marshal  Ney.  When 
Garfield  went  to  Williams  College,  Miss  Rudolph  commenced  teach- 
ing in  the  Cleveland  public  schools,  continuing  that  work  until  he 
became,  in  1858,  the  head  of  Hiram  University;  then  they  were 
married.  They  have  continued  their  classical  studies  to  their  own 
pleasure,  and  to  the  advantage  of  their  older  children,  whom  Mrs. 
Garfield  has  thoroughly  grounded  in  Latin  and  Greek.  She  has 
borne  the  general  six  children,  of  whom  five  are  living.  The  first, 
a  daughter,  died  in  infancy ;  Harry  Augustus,  aged  eighteen,  and 
James  R.,  aged  sixteen,  have  entered  Williams  College,  their  father's 
alma  mater.  Mary,  the  daughter  of  the  family,  is  fourteen  years 
old.  The  younger  children  are  Irwin  McDowell,  ten  years  old, 
and  Abram,  seven  years  old.  The  President  said  of  her  less  than 
a  year  ago,  "  I  have  been  wonderfully  blest  in  the  discretion  of  my 
wife.  She  is  one  of  the  coolest  and  best-balanced  women  I  ever 
saw.  She  is  unstampedable.  There  has  not  been  one  solitary 
instance  in  my  public  career  where  I  suffered  in  the  smallest  de- 
gree for  any  remark  she  ever  made.  It  would  have  been  perfectly 
natural  for  a  woman  often  to  say  something  that  could  be  misinter- 
preted ;  but  without  any  design,  and  with  the  intelligence  and  cool- 
ness of  her  character,  she  has  never  made  the  slightest  mistake 
that  I  ever  heard  of." 


TO   THE   PRESIDENTIAL   CHAIR. 

HIS    NOMINATION   AND    ELECTION.  THE    LAST    DAYS   AT    MENTOR.  — 

GRANDEUR   OF   INDUCTION   INTO    OFFICE. 

At  the  Republican  National  Convention  in  Chicago,  in  June, 
1880,  Gen.  Garfield  was  chosen  as  the  candidate  for  President 
on  the  thirty-sixth  ballot,  after  the  convention  had  been  sitting  ten 
days.  At  the  national  election  in  November  last,  he  received  two 


16  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

hundred  and  fourteen  electoral  votes,  while  Gen.  Hancock  had  one 
hundred  and  fifty-five.  The  President-elect  passed  the  time  be- 
tween the  election  and  his  inauguration  in  retirement  at  his  home  in 
Mentor,  Ohio.  Did  the  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before? 
It  has  been  remembered  of  him  since,  how  he  clung  with  prophetic 
fondness  to  these  few  brief  days  of  happiness  at  his  own  peaceful 
fireside  in  the  companionship  of  his  beloved  wife.  It  has  been 
remembered  of  him  since,  how  he  looked  out  upon  the  great  untried 
sea  before  him  with  feelings  that  were  not  wholly  hopeful.  A  cor- 
respondent recalls  how,  coming  in  to  take  his  leave  once  after  a 
visit  during  this  time,  he  found  the  wife  sitting  in  the  room  where 
only  the  firelight  threw  out  its  ruddy  glow  upon  the  earnest, 
thoughtful  face  which  was  turned  toward  him.  He  asked  her, 
standing  there,  if  she  was  not  looking  forward  with  pleasurable 
anticipations  to  her  residence  in  the  White  House.  She  answered 
quickly,  and  with  unaffected  sincerity,  "No:  I  can  only  hope  it 
will  not  be  altogether  unhappy, ' '  —  words  which  now  seem  those 
of  an  almost  inspired  prophecy. 

At  last  the  time  drew  near  when  the  President-elect  was  to 
assume  the  precious  dignity  to  which  the  voice  of  his  countrymen 
had  called  him.  The  journey  from  Mentor  to  the  capital  was  a 
hopeful  and  a  joyful  one,  in  sad  contrast  to  that  journey  from  the 
capital  to  Cleveland  in  which  he  was  to  figure  in  the  coming 
mouths. 

The  4th  of  March  was  a  great  day  at  the  capital.  Washing- 
ton was  decked  out  in  her  gayest.  One  hundred  thousand  people 
stood  in  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  between  the  Treasury  and  the  Capi- 
tol grounds,  and  gave  acclaim  to  Garfield  as  he  passed.  The 
buildings  were  splendidly  decorated.  There  was  a  flag  and  a  dozen 
fluttering  handkerchiefs  at  every  window.  All  vehicles  were  ex- 
cluded from  the  avenue,  and  the  people  hemmed  in  the  procession 
ten  deep  on  each  side.  Garfield  rode  uncovered  nearly  the  whole 
distance.  The  procession  wound  around  the  southern  wing  of  the 
Capitol.  Garfield  and  Hayes  alighted  at  the  Senate  wing,  and 
entered  the  chamber. 

The  procession  started  from  the  White  House,  the  President 
being  escorted  by  the  first  division ;  and,  on  the  return,  all  fell  into 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  17 

line.  The  route  was  around  the  south  side  of  the  Capitol  to  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue,  thence  to  the  Treasury  Department,  and  so 
on  past  the  White  House.  During  the  time  between  12  and  1.30 
o'clock,  Pennsylvania  Avenue  presented  a  remarkable  sight,  either 
from  the  Treasury  Department  or  the  Capitol.  The  crowd  was 
continuous  from  First  to  Fifteenth  Street ;  and,  as  the  time  for  the 
procession  to  move  approached,  the  crowd  increased,  so  that  there 
seemed  hardly  room  for  the  military  column  to  enter.  The  regular 
troops  led  the  way,  with  Sherman  at  their  head.  Behind  Sherman 
were  three  four-horse  carriages, — Presidents  Garfield  and  Hayes, 
Vice-Presidents  Arthur  and  AVheeler,  and  Senators  Pendleton  and 
Bayard.  In  addition  to  the  Cleveland  troops,  Gen.  Garflcld  was 
attended  by  the  Columbia  Commandery  of  Knights  Templars  of 
the  city,  of  which  he  was  a  member.  When  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession reached  the  Treasury  Department,  the  avenue  for  its  whole 
mile  length  was  literally  packed  with  people.  There  was  a  pause 
at  this  point,  to  enable  the  President  to  leave  the  column,  and 
proceed  to  the  grand  stand  in  front  of  the  White  House,  where  he 
stood  hours  in  witnessing  the  passage  of  the  great  military  and 
civic  concourse,  which  was  over  three  hours  in  passing  a  given 
point.  The  route  was  then  continued  up  Pennsylvania  Avenue  to 
Washington  Circle,  along  K  Street  to  Vermont  Avenue,  and  past 
the  Thomas  statue,  down  Massachusetts  Avenue  to  Mount  Vernon 
Square,  where  the  procession  finally  dispersed. 

In  the  evening  the  ball  was  the  grandest  ever  seen  in  Washing- 
ton. Little  they  knew,  who  participated  in  the  festivities  of  this 
memorable  occasion,  of  the  scenes  which  would  be  enacted  in  the 
city  in  a  few  months,  —  how  the  crowds  would  again  throng  the 
streets  to  witness  a  procession.  Oh,  how  different !  how  the  city 
would  again  be  hung  with  drapery  and  flags,  but  with  so  opposite 
a  meaning ! 

Of  the  time  between  the  4th  of  March  and  the  following  July, 
nothing  need  be  said.  Gen.  Garfield 's  administration  was  never 
fairly  opened.  It  was  but  a  promise,  the  fulfilment  of  which  never 
came. 


18  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

THE   ASSASSIN'S   HAND. 

THE     TERRIBLE     CRIME    WHICH     SHOCKED     THE    WORLD.  THE     STORY 

OF    A   DAY   OP    SUSPENSE    AND    PAIN. 

TOWARD  the  last  of  June  the  President  prepared  to  leave  Wash- 
ington for  a  two- weeks'  trip  in  New  England.  Mrs.  Garfield.  who 
had  gone  to  Long  Branch  on  account  of  her  delicate  health,  was 
improving  rapidly.  It  was  arranged  that  she  and  the  two  sons  and 
a  daughter,  who  were  with  her,  should  join  the  general  and  the  elder 
boys,  James  and  Harry,  at  New  York  on  the  afternoon  of  July  2. 

Meanwhile  the  assassin  Guiteau  was  dogging  the  President  about 
the  streets  of  Washington.  Having  decided  not  to  kill  him  at  the 
church,  and  being  deterred  at  the  depot  on  the  18th  of  June, 
according  to  his  own  confession,  by  the  sad,  weak,  and  frail  ap- 
pearance of  Mrs.  Garfield,  triumph  was  his  at  last  on  the  fatal  2d 
of  July.  Two  pistol-shots, — the  reverberation  of  which  thrilled 
round  the  world,  —  and  the  wretch  was  hurried  to  the  jail ! 

This  happened  on  July  2,  at  9.20  A.M.,  as  the  President  was 
passing  through  the  station  of  the  Baltimore  and  Potomac  Kail- 
road  to  take  the  train.  Two  shots  were  fired  from  a  heavy  pistol, 
but  only  one  ball  hit  him.  He  fell  immediately.  The  physicians 
made  an  unavailing  attempt  to  discover  the  ball  at  the  depot.  It 
was  evident  that  nothing  could  be  done  in  the  presence  of  such  .1 
crowd ;  and  the  slight  chances  of  saving  the  President's  life 
depended  upon  placing  him  where  he  could  have  absolute  quiet. 
A  police  ambulance  was  sent  for,  and  it  was  backed  up  to  the 
B-street  entrance  of  the  depot.  The  President  was  brought  down- 
stairs upon  a  stretcher.  The  doors  were  thrown  open ;  and  the 
crowd  parted,  while  the  wounded  man  was  gently  laid  on  mat- 
tresses on  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle.  The  President  was  very 
pale  and  weak,  but  conscious.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  silently 
waved  his  hand  toward  the  crowd.  Strong  men  sobbed  at  the 
pitiful  sight.  As  the  ambulance  was  driven  up  to  the  south 
entrance  of  the  Executive  Mansion,  the  President  was  lifted  out. 
He  looked  up,  and  saw  Private  Secretaries  Brown  and  Cook  look- 
ing down  from  one  of  the  windows.  Pie  smiled,  and  saluted  them 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTE*    TO   GARFIELD.  19 

with  his  uninjured  arm.  He  was  taken  to  his  bed  of  sickness. 
During  the  painful  hours  that  followed,  he  called  frequently  for 
his  wife,  and  several  times  made  the  pitiful  inquiry,  "  Why  did  he 
shoot?  I  had  done  him  no  harm." 

The  President's  condition  was  considered  imminently  danger- 
ous, —  so  much  so  that  his  proper  treatment  was  neglected.  From 
the  time  when  the  wound  was  looked  at  by  Dr.  Townsend  at  9.30 
at  the  depot,  until  eight  at  night,  it  received  no  effection  ;  for  ten 
hours  and  a  half  the  surgeons  only  administered  hypodermic  injec- 
tions and  stimulants,  and  did  not  endeavor  to  ascertain  the  true 
nature  of  the  injury.  At  8  P.M.,  when  the  natural  consequences 
of  contusion  had  in  a  great  degree  closed  the  channel  of  the  bul- 
let, an  insufficient  and  unskilful  examination  was  made,  from  which 
it  was  concluded  that  the  missile  had  entered  the  body  about  two 
inches  to  the  right  of  the  fourth  lumbar  vertebra,  between  the 
tenth  and  eleventh  ribs,  had  passed  through  the  liver,  and  could 
not  be  traced  farther,  and  that  the  use  of  the  probe  would  be  im- 
proper. It  was  assumed,  not  ascertained,  that  the  wound  was 
mortal.  In  the  course  of  that  afternoon  Dr.  Bliss,  the  physician 
in  charge,  thought  that  the  evidences  of  internal  hemorrhage  were 
distinctly  recognizable,  and  that  collapse  was  imminent.  At  6.45 
P.M.  he  believed  the  patient  was  sinking  rapidly.  At  that  time 
the  physicians  considered  the  case  hopeless. 

Thenceforth  for  eighty  days  the  President  was  cared  for  by 
some  of  the  most  skilled  of  American  surgeons  and  physicians. 
From  time  to  time  there  were  signs  of  improvement,  and  then  again 
of  relapse ;  rays  of  hope  and  shadows  of  despair  alternated ;  but 
at  last,  on  the  nineteenth  day  of  September,  at  10.35  P.M.,  the 
President  died  in  Elberon  Cottage,  at  Long  Branch,  N.J. 

Though  hope  had  gradually  been  going  out,  —  though  it  had 
gone  out  entirely  in  the  hearts  of  all  but  the  most  sanguine,  —  no 
one  dreamed  of  the  swift  approach  of  the  dread  messenger.  The 
day  was  an  anniversary  in  the  life  of  the  suffering  President.  On 
the  19th  of  September,  just  eighteen  years  before,  he  had  been 
made  a  major-general  for  his  gallantry  at  the  battle  of  Chickar 
mauga.  It  has  been  remembered  of  him  since,  that  he  had  said 
lu>  thought  he  should  die  upon  that  day.  Strange  fatality ! 


20  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

The  remains  were  taken,  with  the  greatest  honors  ever  shown  an 
American,  to  Washington,  where  they  lay  in  state  in  the  Capitol 
until  their  removal  to  Cleveland,  Ohio,  where  they  were  placed  in 
their  final  resting-place  in  Lake  View  Cemetery.  The  day  of 
burial,  Monday,  Sept.  2G,  was  a  day  of  mourning  throughout  the 
Union,  and  with  all  Americans  who  chanced  to  be  in  other  countries. 


TO   THE   GRAVE. 

A  MOURNFUL  PROCESSION  ALL  DAY  LONG  BY  THE  SPOT  WHERE  THE 
LATE  PRESIDENT'S  REMAINS  WERE  LYING  IN  STATE  FOR  THE  LAST 
TIME. 

ON  Sunday  Cleveland  was  full  to  overflowing.  At  the  lowest 
estimate,  there  were  two  hundred  thousand  strangers  in  the  city, 
and  the  number  was  constantly  increasing.  All  down  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  solemn  streets,  vast  crowds  surged  all  day  long. 
The  governors  of  eighteen  States  and  Territories,  and  their  staffs, 
and  about  forty  mayors  and  cit3-  delegations  from  the  United  States 
and  Canada,  were  in  town  for  the  purpose  of  taking  part  in  the 
sorrowful  exercises.  In  the  morning  the  workmen  had  finished 
the  catafalque,  a  structure  worthy  of  the  city  and  the  illustrious 
dead.  Long  before  daylight  the  people  had  formed  a  long  line 
on  the  west  side  of  the  square,  ready  for  the  opening  of  the  gate 
of  the  western  arch.  The  line  stretched  away  down  Superior 
Street,  men,  women,  and  children,  to  the  viaduct  that  spans  the 
river  valley,  and  far  across  that  to  the  other  side.  A  line  of  mili- 
tary guarded  the  long  procession  on  either  hand.  The  crowd  was 
silent.  There  was  no  loud  talk,  no  jostling,  no  laughter.  Pa- 
tiently, quietly,  and  as  though  the  funeral  were  that  of  a  near 
friend,  the  people  waited.  At  last,  about  eight  o'clock,  the  great 
gate  was  swung  open,  and  the  mournful  procession  passed  through, 
across  the  square,  and  up  the  sloping  platform  to  where  the  mortal 
remains  of  James  A.  Garfield  lay  in  state  for  the  last  time.  With 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  21 

heads  uncovered  and  bowed,  the  people  passed  by.  Tears  were 
in  every  eye,  and  many  wept  aloud.  It  was  a  most  affecting  and 
impressive  scene. 

Then  followed  the  funeral  services :  which  were  conducted  by 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Ross  E.  lioughtou,  who  opened  with  prayer;  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Isaac  Errett,  who  spoke  for  forty  minutes  in  a  touching 
and  impressive  manner;  and  the  Rev.  E.  S.  Porneroy,who  closed 
the  exercises  at  the  Pavilion  with  a  prayer  and  benediction.  An 
appropriate  feature  of  the  services  was  the  singing  of  the  follow- 
ing verses,  —  President  Garfield's  favorite  hymn  :  — 

"HO!  KEAPERS  OF  LIFE'S  HARVEST." 

Ho!  reapers  of  life's  harvest, 

Why  stand  with  rusted  blade 
Until  the  night  draws  round  ye, 

And  day  begins  to  fade  ? 
Why  stand  ye  idle  waiting 

For  reapers  more  to  come  ? 
The  golden  morn  is  passing : 

Why  sit  ye  idle,  dumb? 

Thrust  in  your  sharpened  sickle, 

And  gather  in  the  grain: 
The  night  is  fast  approaching, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 
The  Master  calls  for  reapers ; 

And  shall  he  call  in  vain  ? 
Shall  sheaves  lie  there  ungathered, 

And  waste  upon  the  plain? 

Mount  up  the  heights  of  wisdom, 

And  crush  each  error  low; 
Keep  back  no  words  cf  knowledge 

That  human  hearts  should  know. 
Be  faithful  to  thy  mission, 

In  service  of  thy  Lord, 
And  then  a  golden  chaplet 

Shall  be  thy  just  reward. 


22  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 


"AFTER    THE    BURIAL." 


THE  last  sad  rites  are  over,  the  last  sad  words  are  spoken  : 
dust  has  been  returned  to  dust,  and  the  spirit  of  James  A.  Garfield 
has  gone  to  the  God  who  gave  it.  The  people  of  this  nation  stood 
with  uncovered  heads,  with  heavy  hearts,  and  with  tear-stained 
faces,  by  the  open  door  of  the  tomb  of  the  martyred  President. 
Who  can  voice  their  sentiments,  their  sympathy,  and  their  sorrow? 
All  recognize  it  as  one  of  those  supreme  occasions  when  words  are 
inadequate,  when  the  kings  of  poetry  and  the  masters  of  prose 
lament  the  poverty  of  language  which  fails  to  portray  the  emotions 
of  a  great  people. 

The  marts  of  trade  were  closed ;  the  wheels  of  industry  were 
stopped ;  the  toiling  millions  rested  from  their  labors ;  thousands 
of  churches  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  were 
filled  by  men,  women,  and  children,  all  anxious  to  participate  in  the 
solemn  ceremonies  of  the  hour ;  and  nearly  all  the  buildings,  both 
public  and  private,  bore  sad  emblems  of  mourning,  from  the  elabo- 
rate and  costly  display  of  the  merchant  prince  to  the  tiny  flag  and 
little  black-and-white  streamers  on  the  cottage  of  the  humblest 
laborer.  There  were  universal  signs  of  mourning  everywhere,  and 
the  pages  of  history  will  never  show  more  pertinent  and  visible 
symbols  of  a  nation's  sorrow. 

The  story  of  the  President's  remarkable  career  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave,  the  terrible  tragedy  and  awful  suffering  which  ended 
in  death  after  weeks  of  horrible  torture,  the  lessons  of  his  life 
and  of  the  event  to  the  nation,  were  set  forth  by  masters  of  ora- 
tory, while  the  soothing  strains  of  music  and  the  sweet  consoling 
stanzas  of  the  song- writers  were  added  to  help  voice  the  emotions 
of  the  people.  At  first  sight  the  eulogies  here  and  there  may  have 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  23 

seemed  a  trifle  extravagant  in  language  ;  but  we  do  not. believe  the 
picture  was  overdrawn  in  a  single  instance  by  any  intelligent 
speaker.  A  man  born  in  humble  circumstances,  who  digs  his  edu- 
cation out  of  books  and  experience  while  fighting  for  his  own 
maintenance  and  that  of  a  widowed  mother;  who  ascends  the 
ladder  of  fame,  round  by  round,  in  the  face  of  fierce  opposition 
and  sharp  competition,  and  in  his  prime  has  reached  the  highest 
office  in  the  gift  of  the  American  people,  —  such  a  man  deserved 
lasting  credit,  and  no  words  of  eulogy  can  picture  such  a  life  in 
colors  too  glowing  to  suit  the  people  and  to  meet  the  requirements 
of  the  case.  And  "  it  was  the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off  " 
which  brought  the  early  struggles  and  striking  successes  of  James 
A.  Garfield  so  conspicuously  before  the  eyes  of  the  nation,  and 
caused  a  deeper  appreciation  of  the  magnitude  of  his  achieve- 
ments. And  it  is  for  these  reasons  that  no  orator  could  find  lan- 
guage to  surpass  the  expectations  of  the  people,  or  words  even 
adequately  to  convey  their  appreciation  of  the  record  of  the  man. 
Mr.  Sumner,  in  his  eulogy  on  Abraham  Lincoln,  truthfully  re- 
marked, "In  the  universe  of  God,  there  are  no  accidents.  From 
the  fall  of  a  sparrow  to  the  fall  of  an  empire,  or  the  sweep  of  a 
planet,  all  is  according  to  divine  Providence,  whose  laws  are  ever- 
lasting. It  was  no  accident  which  gave  to  his  country  the  patriot 
whom  we  now  honor.  It  was  no  accident  which  snatched  this 
patriot  so  suddenly  and  so  cruelly  from  his  sublime  duties." 
These  words  may  be  aptly  applied  to  the  event  the  final  chapter 
of  which  was  written  yesterday.  The  death  of  President  Garfield 
was  no  accident.  God  saw  fit,  in  his  infinite  wisdom,  to  bring  the 
sad  calamity  upon  this  nation  ;  and  all  bow  to  his  powerful  decree. 
So  far  as  human  vision  can  reach,  it  has  called  forth  a  spontaneous 
outburst  of  patriotism  and  sympathy  from  fifty  millions  of  people  : 
has  lifted  them  up  to  a  higher  plane  of  thought  and  action ;  has 
shown  that  the  people  of  these  United  States,  North,  South,  East, 
and  West,  have  again  firmly  riveted  the  bonds  which  make  them 
one  nation  and  one  grand  section  of  the  brotherhoods  of  the 
earth.  It  has  taught  us  to  be  more  charitable,  one  toward  the 
other,  and  to  take  that  broad  and  comprehensive  view  of  human 
nature  which  leads  us  to  value  men  for  what  they  are  rather  than 


24  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

for  what  they  are  not.     What  other  lessons  the  event  may  teach 
us,  time  alone  can  show. 

Now  that  the  door  of  the  tomb  is  closed,  the  great  heart  of  the 
nation  should  go  out  in  sympathy  to  that  aged  mother,  that  devoted 
wife,  and  the  fatherless  children.  When  death  comes  our  grief 
is  great ;  but  there  is  always  a  certain  degree  of  consolation  in 
looking  upon  the  lifeless  remains  of  the  departed.  It  is  when  the 
coffin  has  been  lowered  into  the  newly-made  grave,  or  the  door  of 
the  tomb  is  shut,  and  we  go  to  our  homes,  that  the  complete 
realization  comes  painfully  and  forcibly  to  our  minds  and  hearts. 
It  is  when  we  see  the  vacant  chair  at  the  table,  or  the  chair  by  the 
window  with  the  view  that  father  loved  so  well ;  it  is  when  the 
rooms  of  our  home  seem  so  desolate,  and  we  cannot  have  the  sad 
satisfaction  of  seeing  even  the  cold  clay  which  held  the  soul ;  it  is 
when  the  photograph  of  the  well-remembered  face  seems  to  look  at 
us  from  its  post  of  honor  in  the  album,  or  from  the  wall  or  mantle, 
and  we  miss  him  in  a  thousand  ways  in  the  little  domestic  circle,  — 
then  it  is  the  heart  is  heaviest,  the  cup  of  grief  is  filled  to  over- 
flowing, and  the  future  looks  so  hopelessly  sad  and  dismal.  And 
this  is  why  the  sympathy  and  prayers  and  tears  of  the  nation  should 
to-day  follow  the  members  of  the  Garfield  family  to  Mentor ;  for, 
when  they  reach  their  old  homestead,  —  which  the  son,  husband,  and 
father  left  a  few  short  months  ago  full  of  life  and  hope  and  ' '  with 
his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him,"  —  then  will  their  grief  be 
most  intense,  and  their  anguish  most  poignant.  That  the  God  of 
the  widow  and  the  fatherless  will  watch  over  and  bless  them  all 
the  way  along  in  their  pathway  of  life ;  and  that  the  stricken 
mother,  the  sorrowing  wife,  and  the  fatherless  children  may  all 
meet  the  faithful  son,  the  devoted  husband,  and  the  tender  father 
in  the  grand  reunion  on  the  shores  beyond, — is  the  sincere  and 
earnest  prayer  of  every  patriotic  heart. 

—  BOSTON  GLOBE,  Sept.  27,  1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  25 


THE   TRIBUTES    FROM    THE   POETS. 


JOURNALISM,  to-day,  makes  another  gigantic  stride  in  its  onward 
march  to  perfection  and  the  complete  realization  of  its  huge  possi- 
bilities. It  has  explored  continents ;  its  needs  have  compelled 
science  to  girdle  the  earth  with  a  continuous  electric  belt ;  its 
power  makes  and  unmakes  men  ;  its  methods  have  annihilated  dis- 
tance and  time  as  obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  rapid  and  faithful 
chronicling  of  events.  And  during  all  this  gradual  and  stead}' 
development,  it  has  been  improving  in  tone  and  spirit :  as  it  grows 
more  powerful,  it  grows  less  arbitrary  ;  as  its  facilities  for  record- 
ing the  doings  of  the  civilized  world  increase,  it  becomes  more 
tolerant  in  the  expression  of  opinions  ;  and  as  it  progresses  in  use- 
fulness, it  becomes  more  intellectual.  The  people  have  come  to 
regard  the  press  as  the  great  educator,  not  alone  in  the  department 
of  news,  but  in  all  branches  of  science.  It  has  invaded  the  pulpit, 
the  class-room,  the  bench,  the  bar,  the  laboratory :  wherever 
there  is  information  which  will  benefit  the  masses,  there  will  the 
journalist  be  found,  skipping  like  the  bee  from  flower  to  flower,  and 
extracting  the  sweet  honey  of  knowledge. 

But  it  has  invaded  a  new  field,  hitherto  closed  to  the  surging 
crowd,  unexplored  except  by  the  few,  religiously  guarded,  like  the 
ark  of  the  covenant,  against  the  pollution  which  contact  with  the 
vulgar  might  create,  unapproachable  except  by  the  priests.  It  has 
invaded  the  sacred  groves  where  the  bards  wander  in  mute  and  rapt 
contemplation  of  the  mysteries  of  nature,  the  beauties  of  the  land- 
scape, and  the  awful  splendor  of  the  firmament,  —  it  has  invaded 
the  precincts  of  poetry.  And  for  this  intrusion  it  need  offer  no 
apology,  for  its  purpose  was  praiseworthy  ;  and,  even  if  its  motives 
might  perchance  be  impugned,  it  can  point  to  the  result,  —  the 


26  THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES    TO   GABFIELU. 

touching  tributes  to  the  illustrious  dead  which  a  brilliant  galaxy  of 
American  poets  spread  over  our  first  page  to-day. 

If  the  public  mind  is  puzzled  over  a  great  constitutional  question  ; 
if  a  sudden  crisis  arises  in  the  affairs  of  government ;  if  the  peo- 
ple are  in  doubt  about  the  advisability  of  taking  a  certain  step.  — 
the  press  steps  in  and  enlightens  them.  The  recognized  statesmen 
of  the  land,  constitutional  and  international  lawyers,  are  inter- 
viewed, or  solicited  to  add  the  weight  of  their  experience  and  the 
fruits  of  their  study  to  the  discussion.  They  are,  by  general  con- 
sent, the  authorized  expounders  of  the  law  ;  and  their  interpretation 
is  accepted,  the  Gordian  knot  is  untied,  the  dispute  peaceably  ad- 
justed, and  the  right  principle  established.  Since  the  death  of  our 
lamented  President,  the  English  language  has  been  taxed  to  its 
utmost  to  furnish  a  suitable  medium  for  expressing  the  sorrow 
which  had  settled  down  over  the  land  like  a  huge  pall.  These 
miles  after  miles  of  crape  which  hung  in  our  busy  streets,  and  which, 
standing  out  in  hard  lines  upon  bare  walls,  testified  to  the  exist- 
ence of  a  feeling  of  bereavement,  —  what  was  their  significance  ? 
What  meant  the  sable  garb  adopted  by  foreign  courts  who  had 
never  seen  or  known  our  dead  ?  Why  were  the  churches  crowded 
with  sympathetic  mourners  who  sent  up  prayers  to  the  throne  of 
grace  for  a  man  who  differed  from  them  in  religious  belief  and  form 
of  worship?  What  meant  the  universal  regrets  of  the  whole  world, 
the  general  mourning  and  sadness  of  the  people,  the  respectful, 
reverential  tone  in  which  they  spoke  of  his  life,  his  sufferings,  and 
his  death  ?  Who  could  analyze  all  this  ?  who  could  formulate  a 
proper  interpretation  of  the  symbolic  features  of  this  terrible  na- 
tional affliction  ?  Who  but  the  poets  ? 

And  so  we  went  to  the  poets,  and  asked  them  individually  and 
separately  to  pass  this  great  mass  of  undefined  sentiment  through 
the  crucible  of  song,  and  explain  to  the  people  the  secret  of  their 
sorrow.  They  have  done  so.  The  genial  Dr.  Holmes,  Boston's 
poet-laureate,  gives  expression  in  sweetest  measure  to  the  nation's 
grief  and  the  nation's  hope ;  while  the  stalwart  O'Reilly,  aglow 
with  Celtic  fire,  pictures  in  burning  verse  the  rustic  meaning  of 
that  terrible  midnight  knell  which  told  the  nation  that  its  chosen 
President  was  dead.  Joaquin  Miller,  who  sees  pictures  in  the  ma- 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  27 

jestic  waving  of  the  pines  of  the  Sierras,  and  who  reads  the  voice 
of  Heaven  in  the  thunder  which  shakes  the  peaks  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  tells  the  story  of  Garfi eld's  life,  and  analyzes  its  sym- 
bolism. And  Rev.  M.  J.  Savage  contributes,  of  his  stud}7  in  the 
paths  of  philosophy  and  theology,  a  clever  poem  full 'of  deep  senti- 
ment. Rev.  H,  Bernard  Carpenter  and  Harvard's  latest  accession 
to  the  minstrel  choir  also  join  in  the  general  song,  with  lyres  at- 
tuned to  the  sombre  melody  of  the  season.  But  not  to  men  alone 
must  the  task  be  intrusted.  The  tender  sympathy  which  has  gone 
out  toward  Mrs.  Garfield,  in  her  great  affliction,  from  monarch  and 
peasant,  from  ruler  and  subject,  from  the  great  mass  of  humanity, 
has  a  deep  significance  which  only  woman  can  interpret.  Those 
who  will  read  the  touching  lines  which  rapidly  flowed  from  the 
pens  of  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  Mrs.  Marie  E.  Blake,  Mrs.  Louise 
Parsons  Hopkins,  and  Mrs.  Kate  Tannatt  Woods,  will  feel  grate- 
ful that  in  the  broad  republic  of  letters  women's  rights  are  not  an 
issue,  but  an  institution. 

We  have  said  that  "  The  Globe"  has  inaugurated  a  new  depart- 
ure in  journalism.  We  think  it  will  prove  beneficial  to  the  public 
and  to  the  poets.  The  thin  partition  of  sentiment  which  has 
divided  them  has  been  torn  down,  and  in  the  future  their  relations 
will  be  of  a  more  intimate  and  cordial  nature.  When  any  great 
emergency  arises  in  the  future,  the  poets  will  be  called  on  to  give 
shape  to  the  feelings  of  the  people  ;  to  embody  in  immortal  verse 
the  sympathies,  the  regrets,  or  the  indignation,  of  the  community. 
And  they  will  respond  :  there  is  a  precedent  for  both. 

With  this  explanation  we  present  to  our  readers  the  Garfield 
Memorial  "Globe,"  which  in  future  years,  when  the  onward  march 
of  journalism  shall  have  carried  it  far  beyond  the  point  reached 
to-day,  will  remind  another  generation  of  what  its  predecessors 
thought  out  and  executed. 

—  BOSTON  GLOBE,  Sept.  27, 1881. 


28  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  BOSTON   GLOBE. 


AFTER   THE  BURIAL. 

BY    OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 


FALLEN  with  autumn's  falling  leaf, 
Era  yet  his  summer's  noon  was  past, 

Our  friend,  our  guide,  our  trusted  chief,  — 
What  words  can  match  a  woe  so  vast? 

And  whose  the  chartered  claim  to  speak 
The  sacred  grief  where  all  have  part, 

When  SOITOW  saddens  every  cheek, 
And  broods  in  every  aching  heart  ? 

Yet  Nature  prompts  the  burning  phrase 
That  thrills  the  hushed  and  shrouded  hall, 

The  loud  lament,  the  sorrowing  praise, 
The  silent  tear  that  love  lets  fall. 

In  loftiest  verse,  in  lowliest  liryme, 

Shall  strive  unblamed  the  minstrel  choir,  — 

The  singers  of  the  new-born  time, 
And  trembling  age  with  out-worn  lyre 

No  room  for  pride,  no  place  for  blame  — 
We  fling  our  blossoms  on  the  grave, 

Pale,  scentless,  faded,  —  all  we  claim, 
This  only,  —  what  we  had  we  gave. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  29 

Ah,  could  the  grief  of  all  who  mourn 

Blend  in  one  voice  its  bitter  cry, 
The  wail  to  heaven's  high  arches  borne 

Would  echo  through  the  caverned  sky. 

ir. 

O  happiest  land  whose  peaceful  choice 

Fills  with  a  breath  its  empty  throne  ! 
God,  speaking  through  thy  people's  voice, 

Has  made  that  voice  for  once  his  own. 

No  angr}r  passion  shakes  the  State 

Whose  weaiy  sei'vant  seeks  for  rest,  — 
And  who  could  fear  that  scowling  hate 

Would  strike  at  that  unguarded  breast  ? 

He  stands  ;  unconscious  of  his  doom, 

In  manly  strength,  erect,  serene,  — 
Around  him  summer  spreads  her  bloom  : 

He  falls,  —  what  horror  clothes  the  scene  ! 

How  swift  the  sudden  flash  of  woe 

Where  all  was  bright  as  childhood's  dream  1 

As  if  from  heaven's  ethereal  bow 

Had  leaped  the  lightning's  arrowy  gleam. 

Blot  the  foul  deed  from  history's  page,  — 

Let  not  the  all-betraying  sun 
Blush  for  the  day  that  stains  an  age 

When  murder's  blackest  wreath  was  won. 


in. 

Pale  on  his  couch  the  sufferer  lies, 
The  weary  battle-ground  of  pain  ; 

Love  tends  his  pillow,  science  tries 
Her  every  art,  alas  !  in  vain. 


30  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARF1ELD. 

The  strife  endures  how  long  !  how  long  ! 

Life,  death,  seem  balanced  in  the  scale  ; 
While  round  his  bed  a  viewless  throng 

Awaits  each  morrow's  changing  tale. 

In  realms  the  desert  ocean  parts, 

What  myriads  watch  with  tear-filled  eyes, 

His  pulse-beats  echoing  in  their  hearts, 
His  breathings  counted  with  their  sighs  ! 

Slowly  the  stores  of  life  are  spent, 
Yet  hope  still  battles  with  despair,  — 

Will  Heaven  not  yield  when  knees  are  bent  ? 
Answer,  O  Thou  that  hearest  prayer ! 

» 

But  silent  is  the  brazen  sky,  — 

On  sweeps  the  meteor's  threatening  train,  - 
Unswerving  Nature's  mute  reply, 

Bound  in  her  adamantine  chain. 

Not  ours  the  verdict  to  decide 

Whom  death  shall  claim  or  skill  shall  save  : 
The  hero's  life  though  Heaven  denied, 

It  gave  our  land  a  martyr's  grave. 

Nor  count  the  teaching  vainly  sent 

How  human  hearts  their  griefs  may  share,  - 

The  lesson  woman's  love  has  lent 

What  hope  may  do,  what  faith  can  bear  ! 

Farewell !  the  leaf-strown  earth  enfolds 
Our  stay,  our  pride,  our  hopes,  our  fears; 

And  autumn's  golden  sun  beholds 
A  nation  bowed,  a  world  in  tears. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  31 

REJOICE. 

X 

BY   JOAQUIN   MILLER. 
"  Bear  me  out  of  the  battle,  for  lo!  I  am  sorely  wounded." 

V 

FROM  out  my  deep,  wide-bosomed  West, 

Where  unnamed  heroes  hew  the  way 
For  worlds  to  follow,  with  stern  zest,  — 

Where  gnarled  old  maples  make  array, 
Deep-scarred  from  red  men  gone  to  rest,  — 

Where  pipes  the  quail,  where  squirrels  play 
Through  tossing  trees,  with  nuts  for  toy, 

A  boy  steps  forth,  clear-eyed  and  tall, 
A  bashful  boy,  a  soulful  boy, 

Yet  comely  as  the  sons  of  Saul,  — 
A  boy,  all  friendless,  poor,  unknown, 
Yet  heir-apparent  to  a  throne. 


n. 

Lo  !  Freedom's  bleeding  sacrifice  ! 

So  like  some  tall  oak  tempest-blown 
Beside  the  storied  stream  he  lies 

Now  at  the  last,  pale-browed  and  prone. 
A  nation  kneels  with  streaming  eyes, 

A  nation  supplicates  the  throne, 
A  nation  holds  him  by  the  hand, 

A  nation  sobs  aloud  at  this  : 
The  only  dry  eyes  in  the  land 

Now  at  the  last,  I  think,  are  his. 

Why,  we  should  pray,  God  knoweth  best, 
That  this  grand,  patient  soul  should  rest. 


82  TILE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAUFIELD, 

III. 

The  world  is  round.     The  wheel  has  run 

Full  circle.     Now  behold  a  grave 
Beneath  the  old  loved  trees  is  done. 

The  druid  oaks  lift  up,  and  wave 
A  solemn  welcome  back.     The  brave 

Old  maples  murmur,  every  one, 
"  Receive  him,  Earth  !  "     In  centre  land, 

As  in  the  centre  of  each  heart, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 

The  coffin  sinks.     And  with  it  part 

All  party  hates  !     Now,  not  in  vain 
He  bore  his  peril  and  hard  pain. 


IV. 

Therefore,  I  say,  rejoice  !     I  say, 

The  lesson  of  his  life  was  much,  — 
This  boy  that  won,  as  in  a  day, 

The  world's  heart  utterly  ;  a  touch 
Of  tenderness  and  tears  :  the  page 

Of  history  grows  rich  from  such ; 
His  name  the  nation's  heritage,  — 

But  oh !  as  some  sweet  angel's  voice 
Spake  this  brave  death  that  touched  us  all. 

Therefore,  I  say,  Rejoice  !  Rejoice  ! 

Run  high  the  flags  !     Put  by  the  pall ! 
Lo  !  all  is  for  the  best  for  all ! 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  83 

SONNET  — JAMES  A.    GARFIELD. 

BY   REV.    H.    BERNARD    CARPENTER. 

Lo  !  as  a  pure,  white  statue  wrought  with  care 

By  some  strong  hand,  which  moulds  from  Life  and  Death 

Beauty  more  beautiful  than  blood  or  breath, 
And  straight  'tis  veiled  ;  and,  whilst  all  men  repair 
To  see  this  wonder  in  the  workshop,  there  ! 

Behold,  it  gleams  unveiled  to  curious  eye 

Far-seen,  high- placed  in  Art's  pale  gallery, 
Where  all  stand  mute  before  a  work  so  fair : 
So  he,  our  man  of  men,  in  vision  stands, 

With  Pain  and  Patience  crowned  imperial ; 

Death's  veil  has  dropped  ;  far  from  this  house  of  woe 
He  hears  one  love-chant  out  of  many  lands, 

Whilst  from  his  mystic  noon-height  he  lets  fall 

His  shadow  o'er  these  hearts  that  bleed  below. 
SEPT.  26, 1881. 


MIDNIGHT. 

SEPTEMBER  19,   1881. 
BY   JOHN    BOYLE    O'REILLY. 

ONCE  in  a  lifetime  we  may  see  the  veil 

Tremble  and  lift,  that  hides  symbolic  things  ; 

The  spirit's  vision,  when  the  senses  fail, 

Sweeps  the  weird  meaning  that  the  outlook  brings. 

Deep  in  the  midst  of  turmoil,  it  may  be,  — 
A  crowded  street,  a  forum,  or  a  field,  — 

The  soul  inverts  the  telescope,  to  see 
To-day's  event  in  future  years  revealed. 


84  TllU   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIKLD. 

Back  from  the  present,  let  us  look  at  Rome  ; 

Now,  see  what  Cato  meant,  what  Brutus  said. 
Hark  !  the  Athenians  welcome  Cimon  home  ! 

—  How  clear  they  are,  those  glimpses  of  the  dead ! 

But  we,  hard  toilers,  we  who  plan  and  weave 
Through  common  days  the  web  of  common  life, 

What  word,  alas  !  shall  teach  us  to  receive 
The  mystic  meaning  of  our  peace  and  strife  ? 

Whence  comes  our  symbol  ?     Surely  God  must  speak  ; 

No  less  than  he  can  make  us  heed  or  pause : 
Self-seekers  we,  too  busy  or  too  weak 

To  search  beyond  our  daily  lives  and  laws. 

'Gainst  things  occult  our  earth-turned  eyes  rebel ; 

No  sound  of  Destiny  can  reach  our  ears  ; 
We  have  no  time  for  dreaming —     Hark  !  a  knell,  — 

A  knell  at  midnight !     All  the  nation  hears  ! 

A  second  grievous  throb  !     The  dreamers  wake  ; 

The  merchant's  soul  forgets  his  goods  and  ships  ; 
The  humble  workmen  from  their  slumbers  break  ; 

The  women  raise  their  eyes  with  quivering  lips  : 

The  miner  rests  upon  his  pick  to  hear ; 

The  printer's  type  stops  midway  from  the  case  ; 
The  solemn  sound  has  reached  the  roisterer's  ear, 

And  brought  the  shame  and  sorrow  to  his  face. 

Again  it  booms  !     Oh,  mystic  veil,  upraise  ! 

—  Behold,  'tis  lifted  !     On  the  darkness  drawn, 
A  picture,  lined  with  light !     The  people's  g^ze, 

From  sea  to  sea,  beholds  it  till  the  dawn  : 

A  death-bed  scene,  — a  sinking  sufferer  lies. 

Their  chosen  ruler,  crowned  with  love  and  pride  ; 
Around,  his  counsellors,  with  streaming  eyes  ; 

His  wife  heart-broken,  kneeling  by  his  side  : 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  35 

Death's  shadow  holds  her ;  it  will  pass  too  soou  ; 

She  weeps  in  silence  —  bitterest  of  tears  ; 
He  wanders  softly  —  Nature's  kindest  boon, 

And  as  he  whispers  all  the  country  hears. 

For  him  the  pain  is  past,  the  struggle  ends  : 
His  cares  and  honors  fade  :  his  younger  life 

In  peaceful  Mentor  comes,  with  dear  old  friends  ; 
His  mother's  arms  take  home  his  sweet  young  wife ; 

He  stands  among  the  students,  tall  and  strong, 

And  teaches  truths  republican  and  grand  : 
He  moves  —  ah,  pitiful !  —  he  sweeps  along, 

O'er  fields  of  carnage  leading  his  command ! 

He  speaks  to  crowded  faces  ;  round  him  surge 

Thousands  and  millions  of  excited  men  : 
He  hears  them  cheer,  sees  some  great  light  emerge, 

Is  borne  as  on  a  tempest :  then  —  ah,  then  ! 

The  fancies  fade,  the  fever's  work  is  past ; 

A  moment's  pang  —  then  recollections  thrill : 
lie  feels  the  faithful  lips  that  kiss  their  last, 

His  heart  beats  once  in  answer,  and  is  still ! 

The  curtain  falls  ;  but  hushed,  as  if  afraid, 

The  people  wait,  tear-stained,  with  heaving  breast ; 

'Twill  rise  again,  they  know,  when  he  is  laid 
With  Freedom,  in  the  Capitol,  at  rest. 

Once  more  they  see  him,  in  his  coffin,  there, 
As  Lincoln  lay  in  blood-stained  martyr  sleep  ; 

The  stars  and  stripes  across  his  honored  bier, 
While  Freedom  and  Columbia  o'er  him  weep 


36  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD. 

«IIE  IS  DEAD,   OUR  PRESIDENT." 

BY  CHARLES  TURNER  DAZEY. 

[THE  HARVARD  CLASS  POET  op  1881.] 

HE  is  dead,  our  President ;  he  rests  in  an  honored  grave, 

He  whom  any  one  of  us  would  gladly  have  died  to  save. 

All  is  over  at  last,  the  long,  brave  straggle  for  life,  — 

For  a  nation's  sake,  not  his  own,  and  for  that  of  children  and 

wife. 

Doubt  and  suspense  are  dead  ;  dead  is  the  passionate  thrill 
Of  a  hope  too  blessed  and  sweet  for  aught  but  death  to  kill. 
Do  you  remember  yet,  how,  from  that  awful  day 
When  the   pulse   of  the   nation   stopped  with'  a  shock  of  wild 

dismay, 

And  voiceless  horror  looked  from  questioning  eyes  to  eyes, 
As  the  murmur  widened  and  spread,  "  Our  President  murdered 

lies,"  — 

How  to  the  very  last,  like  a  star  in  a  night  of  gloom, 
The  hope  of  the  people  burned  till  it  sank  in  a  hero's  tomb? 
We  could  not  give  Mm  up :  as  a  mother  prays  for  her  child, 
We  prayed  for  his  precious  life,  with  a  love  as  deep  and  wild. 
We  had  known  him  long  and  well  as  a  man  of  royal  mind, 
Who  had  nobly  proved  his  birthright  as  a  leader  of  mankind. 
We  had  watched  him,  oh,  so  proudly  !  as  in  life's  ranks  he  rose 
By  the  fair  and  open  warfare  that  endeared  him  to  his  foes  : 
But  we  never  prized  him  rightly  until  he  had  meekly  lain 
Wrapped  in  speechless  tortures  of  the  fiery  furnace  of  pain. 
Then  how  we  learned  to  love  him  !  for  all  that  man  holds  dear, 
For  infinite  faith  and  patience,  and  courage  when  death  drew  near, 
For  yearning  love  that  strove  with  a  pitiful,  mighty  strife, 
To  shield  from  the  sting  of  sorrow  the  hearts  of  mother  and  wife. 
Then  with  tearful  vision,  purged  of  passion  and  pride, 
We  saw  in  its  tender  beauty  that  spirit  glorified  ; 
And  mighty  love  swept  o'er  us  with  a  current  as  deep  and  grand 
As  the  Nile  that  swells  to  a  sea  to  nourish  a  hungry  land. 


THE   POETS1    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  37 

O  boundless  sea  of  love,  and  star  of  a  hope  that  is  dead, 

Not  vainly  our  President  died,  not  vainly  our  loved  one  bled, 

If  still  that  sea  shall  sweep  onward  which  at  first  so  naiTOw  ran 

Till  the  hands  of  the  nations  clasp  in  the  brotherhood  of  man, 

Till  the  hate  that  smoulders  still  in  hearts  unreconciled 

Shall  change  to  the  sweet  affection  that  beams  in  the  glance  of  a 

child, 
And   gladness   shall   dawn   from   sorrow,  and   glory   burst   from 

gloom.  • 

And   the  flower  of   love  fraternal   shall  blossom  from  Garfield's 

tomb. 
CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  Sept.  25,  1881. 


J.    A.    G. 

BY   JULIA    WARD    HOWE. 

OUR  sorrow  sends  its  shadow  round  the  earth. 
So  brave,  so  true  !     A  hero  from  his  birth  ! 
The  plumes  of  Empire  moult,  in  mourning  draped, 
The  lightning's  message  by  our  tears  is  shaped. 

Life's  vanities  that  blossom  for  an  hour 
Heap  on  his  funeral  car  their  fleeting  flower. 
Commerce  forsakes  her  temples,  blind  and  dim, 
And  pours  her  tardy  gold,  to  homage  him. 

The  notes  of  grief  to  age  familiar  grow 
Before  the  sad  privations  all  must  know ; 
But  the  majestic  cadence  which  we  hear 
To-day,  is  new  in  either  hemisphere. 

What  crown  is  this,  high  hung  and  hard  to  reach, 
Whose  glory  so  outshines  our  laboring  speech? 
The  crown  of  Honor,  pure  and  unbetrayed  ; 
He  wins  the  spurs  who  bears  the  knightly  aid. 


38  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD. 

While  royal  babes  incipient  empire  hold, 

And,  for  bare  promise,  grasp  the  sceptre's  gold, 

This  man  such  service  to  his  age  did  bring 

That  they  who  knew  him  servant,  hailed  him  long. 

In  poverty  his  infant  couch  was  spread  ; 
His  tender  hands  soon  wrought  for  daily  bread ; 
But  from  the  cradle's  bound  his  willing  feet 
The  errand  of  the  moment  went  to  meet. 

When  learning's  page  unfolded  to  his  view, 
The  quick  disciple  straight  a  teacher  grew  ; 
And,  when  the  fight  of  freedom  stirred  the  land, 
Armed  was  his  heart  and  resolute  his  hand. 

Wise  iu  the  council,  stalwart  in  the  field  ! 
Such  rank  supreme  a  workman's  lint  may  yield. 
His  onward  steps  like  measured  marbles  show, 
Climbing  the  height  where  God's  great  flame  doth  glow. 

Ah  !  Rose  of  joy,  that  hid'st  a  thorn  so  sharp  ! 
Ah  !  Golden  woof  that  meet'st  a  severed  warp  ! 
Ah  !  Solemn  comfort  that  the  stars  rain  down  ! 
The  hero's  garland  his,  the  martyr's,  crown  ! 
NEWPORT,  Sept.  25,  1881. 


FATHERLESS. 

BY   KATE    TAXNATT    WOODS. 

OVER  the  land  the  tidings  sped, 

"  The  leader  has  fallen,  our  chief  is  dead  ;  " 

And  over  the  land  a  cry  of  pain 

Began  and  ended  with  Garfield's  name. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  39 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  each,  with  tearful  eye  : 
"  So  strong,  so  true,  why  must  he  die?  " 
And  the  children  paused  that  autumn  day 
To  talk  of  the  good  man  passed  away. 

Over  the  land,  when  the  tidings  came, 
Even  the  babies  lisped  his  name  ; 
And  3Touthful  eyes  grew  sad  that  day 
For  the  fatherless  children  far  away. 

Fatherless,  — word  with  a  life  of  pain  ; 
Fatherless,  — never  complete  again  ; 
Always  to  miss,  and  never  to  know, 
The  joy  of  his  greeting,  —  his  love  below. 

Missing  the  cheerful  smile  each  day, 
Missing  his  care  in  studies  or  play, 
Missing  each  hour,  each  day,  each  year, 
The  sound  of  a  voice  so  tender  and  dear. 

Fatherless  !  only  the  children  can  tell 
The  sound  of  that  dreary  funeral  knell ; 
For  only  they,  in  all  coming  years, 
Find  the  roses  of  youth  bedewed  with  tears. 

Over  the  land,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  prayer  of  the  children  is  echoed  o'er,  — 
"  God  of  the  fatherless,  help,  we  pray, 
The  wards  of  our  mourning  nation  to-day." 
SALEM,  Sept.  24,  1881. 


40  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD. 


LAUREL  —  CYPRESS. 

BY    LOUISA    PARSONS    HOPKINS. 

[AUTHOR  OF  "  MOTHERHOOD."] 

MARCH  4,  1881. 

HE  stands  at  the  Capitol's  portal 

With  lifted  hand. 
The  vows  of  God  are  upon  him 

For  the  trust  of  the  land  ; 

Chief  true  and  grand  ! 

His  manhood  turns  in  its  glory 

To  womanhood. 
To  his  wife  and  mother  he  yearns 

From  the  multitude  ; 

Heart  true  and  good  ! 

He  crowns  them  before  the  people 

With  kiss  of  love. 
See  it,  ye  men,  and  shout,  — 

Full  hearts  will  out ; 

Rend  the  heavens  above  ! 

SEPTEMBER  23,  1881. 

He  lies  in  the  wide  rotunda. 

With  folded  palms  ; 
"Wounded  for  our  transgressions." 

Comrades  in  arms, 

Spread  ye  his  pall, 

For  the  peace  of  all ! 

The  thronging  crowds  have  passed  him, 

With  falling  tear  ; 
A  queenly  woman's  garland 

Upon  his  bier ; 

Knight  without  fear, 

Man  brave  and  dear  ! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  41 

In  this  his  martyr-glory 

Leave  him  alone ; 
For  his  kiss-crowned  wife  is  coming. 

Though' dead,  he  has  known 

She  would  come  —  his  own  — 

To  share  his  throne. 
NEW  BEDFORD,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


THE    LAST   BULLETIN. 

BY    MARIE    E.    BLAKE. 

DAY  after  day  as  morning  skies  did  flame, 

"  How  fares  our  liege?  "  we  cried  with  eager  breath,  — 
"  How  fares  our  liege,  who  fights  the  fight  with  death?  " 

o      '  O  ~ 

And  ever  with  fresh  hope  the  answer  came  ; 

Until  that  solemn  midnight  when  the  clang 
Of  woeful  bells  tolled  out  their  tale  of  dread, 
That  he,  the  good  and  gifted  one,  was  dead, 

And  through  his  weeping  land  the  message  rang. 

Then  in  the  darkness  every  heart  was  bowed  : 
While  thinking  on  the  direful  ways  of  Fate, 
Where  Love  could  thus  be  overthrown  by  Hate,  — 

"  So  wrong  hath  conquered  right !  "  we  said  aloud. 

"  If  this  be  life,  what  matter  how  it  flies  ; 

What  strength  or  power  or  glory  crowns  a  name  ; 

What  noble  meed  of  honesty  or  fame, 
Since  all  these  gifts  were  his,  —  and  there  he  lies 

Blighted  by  malice  !  Woe's  the  day !  and  dead 
While  yet  the  fields  of  his  most  golden  prime 
Are  rich  in  all  the  pomp  of  summer-time, 

With  all  their  ripening  wealth  unharvested  !" 


42  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 


Thus  fares  it  with  our  liege  ?     Nay,  doubting  soul, 
Not  thus  ;  but  grandly  raised  to  nobler  height 
Of  strength  and  power  aiid  most  divine  delight, 

—  At  one  swift  breath  made  beautiful  and  whole ! 

Nor  mocked  by  broken  hope,  or  shattered  plan, 
By  some  pale  ghost  of  duty  left  undone, 
By  haunting  moments  wasted  one  by  one, 

But  crowned  with  that  which  best  becometh  man. 

Holding  with  brimming  hands  his  heart's  desire ; 
While  the  fierce  light  of  these  last  glorious  days, 
Blazing  on  each  white  line  of  thought  and  ways, 

Touches  his  record  with  immortal  fire ! 

BOSTON,  Sept.  25,  1881. 


J.    A.    G. 

12  UM 'ANITAS  REG  NANS. 
BY    M.  J.   SAVAGE. 

WITH  finger  on  lip,  and  breath  bated, 
With  an  eager  and  sad  desire, 

The  world  stood  hushed,  as  it  waited 
For  the  click  of  the  fateful  wire. 

' '  Better : ' '  and  civilization 

Breathed  freer  and  hoped  again. 

"  Worse:  "  and  through  every  nation 
Went  throbbing  a  tlirill  of  pain. 

A  cry  at  midnight !  and  listening  — 
"Dead!"  tolled  out  the  bells  of  despair ; 
And  millions  of  eyelids  were  glistening 
As  sobbed  the  sad  tones  on  the  air. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD.  43 

But  who  is  ho  toward  whom  all  eyes  are  turning? 
And  who  is  ho  for  whom  all  hearts  are  yearning? 

What  is  the  threat  at  which  earth  holds  its  breath  , 

While  one  lone  man  a  duel  fights  with  death? 


No  thrones  are  hanging  in  suspense  ; 

No  kingdoms  totter  to  their  fall. 
Peace,  with  her  gentle  influence, 

Is  hovering  over  all. 

'Tis  just  one  man  at  Elberon, 

Who  waitcth  day  by  day, 
Whose  patience  all  our  hearts  hath  won 

As  ebbs  his  life  away. 

His  birthday  waked  no  cannon-boom  ; 

No  purple  round  him  hung  : 
A  backwoods  cabin  gave  him  room  ; 

And  storms  his  welcome  sung. 

He  seized  the  sceptre  of  that  king 
Who  treads  a  freehold  sod  : 

He  wore  upon  his  brow  that  ring 
That  crowns  a  son  of  God. 

By  his  own  might  he  built  a  throne. 

With  no  un human  arts, 
And  by  his  manhood  reigned  alone 

O'er  fifty  million  hearts. 

Thus  is  humanity's  long  dream, 
Its  highest,  holiest  hope,  begun 

To  harden  into  fact,  and  gleam 
A  city  'neath  the  sun,  — 


44  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

A  city,  not  like  that  which  came 

In  old-time  vision  from  the  skies  ; 
But  wrought  by  man  through  blood  and  flame, 
*  From  solid  earth  to  rise,  — 

Man's  city  ;  the  ideal  reign 

Where  every  human  right  hath  place  ; 

Where  blood,  nor  birth,  nor  priest  again 
Shall  bind  the  weary  race,  — 

In  which  no  king  but  man  shall  be. 

'Twas  this  that  thrilled  with  loving  pain 
The  heart  of  all  the  earth,  as  he 

Died  by  the  sobbing  main. 

For,  mightiest  ruler  of  the  earth, 
He  was  the  mightiest,  not  because 

Of  priestly  touch,  or  blood,  or  birth, 
But  by  a  people's  laws. 


O  Garfleld  !  brave  and  patient  soul ! 
Long  as  the  tireless  tides  shall  roll 
About  the  Long  Branch  beaches,  where 
Thy  life  went  out  upon  the  air, 
So  long  thy  land,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Will  hold  thy  manhood's  legacy. 

There  were  two  parties  :  there  were  those, 
In  thine  own  party,  called  thy  foes ; 
There  was  a  North  ;  there  was  a  South, 
Ere  blazed  the  assassin's  pistol-mouth. 

But  lo  !  thy  bed  became  a  throne  ; 

And,  as  the  hours  went  by,  at  length 
The  weakness  of  thine  arm  alone 

Grew  mightier  than  thy  strongest  strength. 


TEE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  46 

No  petulant  murmur ;  no  vexed  cry 
Of  balked  ambitions  ;  but  a  high, 
Grand  patience  !     And  thy  whisper  blent 
In  one  heart  all  the  continent. 
To-day  there  are  no  factions  left, 
But  one  America  bereft. 


O  Garfield  !  fortunate  in  death  wast  thou, 
Though  at  the  opening  of  a  grand  career ! 

Thou  wast  a  meteor  flashing  on  the  brow 
Of  skies  political,  where  oft  appear, 

And  disappear,  so  many  stars  of  promise.     Then, 
While  all  men  watched  thy  high  course,  wondering 

If  thou  wouldst  upward  sweep,  or  fall  again, 

Thee  from  thine  orbit  mad  hands  thought  to  fling  ; 

And  lo  !  the  meteor,  with  its  fitful  light, 
All  on  a  sudden  stood,  and  was  a  star,  — 

A  radiance  fixed,  to  glorify  the  night 

There  where  the  world's  proud  constellations  are. 


JAMES    ABRAM    GARFIELD. 

BY    FRANCIS    A.    NICHOLS. 

O  GOLDEN-ROD  upon  the  hill ! 

O  white-lipped  lily  of  the  lake  ! 
No  longer  bloom  to  half  fulfil 

A  promise  made  for  promise'  sake  ! 
Let  brambles  grow,  let  thistles  blow  : 
What  careth  he  ?     He  cannot  know. 


46  TIIE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 

O  waving  fields  of  ripening  grain  ! 

O  fruitage  of  the  vine  and  tree  ! 
Nor  kissing  sun  nor  soothing  rain 

Again  shall  wake  maturity. 
No  seed  may  grow  ;  no  man  may  sow. 
What  care th  he  ?    He  cannot  know. 

O  breast  of  woman  !   bearing  pain 
To  round  the  fulness  of  thy  life  : 

No  first  low  cry  of  babe  again 

Shall  meet  the  ear  of  prayerful  wife. 

No  mother's  love  ;  no  mother's  woe. 

What  careth  he?    He  cannot  know. 

O  sun !  O  moon  !  O  stars  !  O  day  ! 

Forever  vanished  from  our  sight ! 
Nor  love  nor  faith  may  find  a  ray 

For  guidance  from  eternal  night : 
The  light  may  come  ;  the  light  may  go. 
What  careth  he  ?     He  cannot  know. 

O  grave  !   beneath  some  clouded  sky, 
Low-lurking  near  his  hallowed  head, 

Henceforth,  nor  mourning  robe  nor  sigh 
Shall  know  the  living  from  the  dead. 

What  though  our  hearts  shall  fill  and  flow? 

What  careth  he  ?     He  cannot  know. 

0  harp  attuned  to  holy  things  ! 

Forbear,  in  grief,  to  lose  the  strain,  — 
The  grand  old  strain  the  prophet  sings,  — 

"  The  dead  shall  rise  to  life  again  !  " 
Thus  life  will  come  ;  thus  life  will  go. 
'Tis  well !  for  God  hath  ordered  so. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  47 

"'TIS  O'ER  AT  LAST." 

BY  JOSEPH  W.  NYE. 

'Tis  o'er  at  last  —  the  doubtful  strife, 
We  watched  so  long  in  hope  and  fear. 

The  die  is  cast !     AVith  sadness  rife 
We  gather  at  our  ruler's  bier. 

The  starry  flag  o'er  all  the  land 

The  story  sad  at  half-mast  tells  ; 
Sounds  solemnly  on  every  hand 

The  mournful  requiem  of  bells. 

No  faction  breaks  the  grief  wide-spread  ; 

No  State  or  section  stands  apart : 
All  join  in  mourning  for  him  dead ; 

He  finds  a  place  in  every  heart. 

The  thrilling  words  he  often  spake. 

With  eloquence  almost  divine, 
All  patriotic  hearts  awake, 

From  the  Palmetto  to  the  Pine  ! 

What  though  our  prayers  did  not  avail, 
The  suffering,  prostrate  form  to  raise? 

Our  trust  in  God  will  never  fail. 

We  cannot  cease  his  name  to  praise. 

"  God  reigns  !  "     His  purpose  underlies 

The  weak  designs  of  finite  man  ; 
The  plots  which  scheming  men  devise 

Can  never  thwart  his  wondrous  plan. 

He  ever  makes  man's  wrath  to  praise 

His  overruling  power  and  love, 
Thus  bringing  men  to  know  his  ways, 

And  drawing  them  to  heave-n  above. 


48  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAEFIELD. 

COLUMBIA  weeps  not  alone  ; 

The  world  partakes  the  heavy  woe  : 
From  cot  to  cot,  from  throne  to  throne, 

The  streams  of  grief  and  sorrow  flow. 

Lo,  England's  Queen  (God  bless  her!)  sends 
Her  tribute  of  esteem  sincere, 

Which  with  a  thousand  offerings  blends 
To  crown  the  martyr's  hallowed  bier ! 

The  generations  yet  unborn 

Will  oft  the  tearful  story  tell, 
How,  on  that  fated  summer  morn, 

The  noble  form  of  GARFIELD  fell ! 

Patient  and  calm  through  trials  long 
Of  weariness  and  ceaseless  pain, 

The  victim  of  a  deed  of  wrong 
To  be  repeated  ne'er  again  ! 

Against  the  hand  that  laid  him  low, 
We  heard  from  him  nor  wrath  nor  hate, 

But  million  hearts  impatient  grow 
To  mete  the  murderer  his  fate  ! 

What  are  the  bays  which  warriors  crown  ? 

The  spurs  of  gold  by  knighthood  won? 
His  were  the  honor  and  renown 

Of  manhood  true  and  duty  done. 

Our  noble  leader,  living  still, 

Is  "  marching  on  "  to  duties  new, 

His  noble  mission  to  fulfil 

The  spirit's  subtile  influence  through ! 

Rest,  patriot,  in  thy  narrow  bed, 

While  flowers  we  culled  bedeck  thy  mound  : 

A  brighter  crown  adorns  thy  head, 
Where  joys  supernal  e'er  abound. 

LYXN,  MASS. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  49 


POEMS  WRITTEN  FOR  OTHER  PAPERS. 


ELBERON. 

BY  J.   VT.   TUKNEK. 

[From  The  East  Boston  Advocate.] 

I. 

'TWAS  eventide:  the  stars  were  beaming  from  on  high, 

The  balmy  breeze  of  autumn  gently  floated  by, 

As  at  my  casement  gazing  out  upon 

The  world,  my  thoughts  were  still  at  Elberon. 


List!  dost  thou  hear  that  sound  —  that  mournful  knell  ? 
Those  tones  that  vibrate  over  hill  and  dell  ? 
From  east  to  west  upon  this  midnight  calm, 
From  north  to  south  —  oh,  hear  the  sad  alarm! 


Ah,  yes!  a  nation's  tears  too  plainly  tell 

Too  well,  alas !  to  us,  what  has  befell, 

And  hope,  once  cherished  in  our  hearts,  has  fled,  — 

Our  President,  our  noble  Garfield's  dead! 


O  sad  Columbia!  stricken  land,  for  thee 
This  hour  of  solemn  grief's  dark  destiny! 
The  tidings  now  so  fraught  with  gloom  and  pain 
That's  lingering  o'er  thy  great  and  wide  domain. 

v. 

O  God !  we  turn  our  inmost  thoughts  above, 
Invoke  thy  aid,  —  thy  ever  tender  love ; 
For  by  thy  will,  thy  might,  and  thy  command, 
Is  life,  is  love,  is  home  and  native  land. 


50  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

VI. 

O  wife  bereft!  O  aged  mother  dear! 
O  darling  children  in  affliction  drear! 
A  nation  bears  her  sympathy  to  thee, 
This  hour  of  death,  —  of  death's  great  mystery. 


Oh!  teach  the  ones,  those  men  who  high  in  state, 
All  noble  deeds  of  good  to  emulate, 
And  stay  the  bold  and  base  assassin's  way, 
Whose  hand  uplifted  would  a  mortal  slay. 


O  thou  lamented,  loved  of  all  thy  race! 
From  boy  to  man  thy  nobleness  we  trace  : 
All  hearts  are  beating  sadly,  tenderly  ; 
A  nation's  tears  are  falling  now  for  thee. 

IX. 

Too  soon,  alas !  the  portals  of  the  grave 
Will  ope  for  thee,  thou  noble,  good,  and  brave; 
But  yet  around  thee  in  that  sacred  shrine, 
Oh !  millions  will  their  purest  love  intwine. 
EAST  BOSTON,  September,  1881. 


BEST,  NOBLE  CHIEF. 

BY  C.    D.    BRADLEE. 

[From  The  Boston  Advertiser.] 
REST,  noble  chief,  and  sweetly  rest : 
Thy  work  is  done,  God's  will  is  best. 
A  faithful  life  is  finished  now: 
The  seal  of  death  is  on  thy  brow. 

Rise,  noble  chief,  rise  up  to  heaven : 
Another  life  our  God  has  given ; 
And  angel  robes  are  thine  by  right, 
And  all  thy  days  shall  now  be  bright. 

Take  now  thy  crown,  beloved  of  all, 
And  hear  our  God's  approving  call; 
Whilst  we  on  earth  bow  low,  and  weep, 
And  sad  and  lonely  vigils  keep. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  51 

A  TOUCHING  SONNET. 

BY  ERIC  S.   ROBERTSON. 
[From  The  New  York  Herald.] 

The  following  sonnet  was  written  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  London,  after  the  funeral  an. 
them  for  President  Garfield  bad  been  sung :  — 

September  25. 
THROUGH  tears  to  look  upon  a  tearful  crowd, 

And  hear  the  anthem  echoing 

High  in  the  dome  till  angels  seem  to  fling 
The  chant  of  England  up  through  vault  and  cloud, 
Making  ethereal  register  aloud 

At  Heaven's  own  gate.     It  was  a  sorrowing 

To  make  a  good  man's  death  seem  such  a  thing 
As  makes  imperial  purple  of  his  shroud. 

Some  creeds  there  be  like  runes  we  cannot  spell, 
And  some  like  stars  that  flicker  in  their  flame ; 

But  some  so  clear  the  sun  scarce  shines  so  well ; 
For  when  with  Moses'  touch  a  dead  man's  name 

Finds  tears  within  strange  rocks  as  this  name  can, 

We  know  right  well  that  God  was  with  the  man. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  OF  A  NATION. 

BY  CHARLOTTE   FISKE  BATES. 
[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 

THIRTY-EIGHT  I  counted  the  solemn  stroke 
In  as  many  a  solemn  minute! 
At  the  second  or  third  the  hardiest  folk 
The  spell  of  their  midnight  revel  broke; 
The  hum  of  pleasure,  the  groan  of  care, 
Sank  to  a  hushed  grief  everywhere,  — 
And  the  still  heaven  had  anguish  in  it! 

O  States !  whatever  ye  were  before, 

Be  one  for  an  endless  morrow! 

Thirty  and  eight !  from  the  very  core 

Of  the  nation's  soul  doth  her  grief  outpour, 

In  this  deep  of  Death's  and  Nature's  dark. 

One  anguish  in  thirty-eight  breathings,  hark! 

All  one,  all  one,  in  the  orphan's  sorrow. 


52  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO  GASFIELD. 


AN  ODE  ON  THE  ASSASSINATION. 

[A  prize  offered  by  a  London  weekly  for  the  best  poem  on  the  attempted  assassination  of 
President  Garfield  was  awarded  to  the  author  of  the  following.] 

VEIL  now,  O  Liberty!  thy  blushing  face, 
At  the  fell  deed  that  thrills  a  startled  world ; 

While  fair  Columbia  weeps  in  dire  disgrace, 
And  bows  in  sorrow  o'er  the  banner  furled. 

No  graceless  tyrant  falls  by  vengeance  here. 

'Neath  the  wild  justice  of  a  secret  knife; 
No  red  Ambition  ends  its  grim  career, 

And  expiates  its  horrors  with  its  life. 

Not  here  does  rash  Revenge  misguided  burn, 

To  free  a  nation  with  the  assassin's  dart; 
Or  roused  Despair  in  angry  madness  turn, 

And  tear  its  freedom  from  a  despot's  heart. 

But  where  blest  Liberty  so  widely  reigns, 
And  Peace  and  Plenty  mark  a  smiling  land, 

Here  the  mad  wretch  its  fair  white  record  stains 
And  blurs  its  beauties  with  a  "  bloody  hand." 

Here  the  elect  of  millions,  and  the  pride 
Of  those  who  own  his  mild  and  peaceful  rule,  — 

Here  virtueNsinks  and  yields  the  crimson  tide, 
Beneath  the  vile  unreason  of  a  fool ! 


THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT. 

BY  J.   G.    HOLLAND. 

A  WASP  flew  out  upon  our  fairest  son, 

And  stung  him  to  the  quick  with  poisoned  shaft, 

The  while  he  chatted  carelessly,  and  laughed, 

And  knew  not  of  the  fateful  mischief  done. 

And  so  this  life  amid  our  love  begun, 

Envenomed  by  the  insect's  hellish  craft, 

Was  drunk  by  Death  in  one  long  feverish  draught, 

And  he  was  lost,  —  our  precious,  priceless  one. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  53 

Oh,  mystery  of  blind,  remorseless  fate! 

Oh,  cruel  end  of  a  most  causeless  hate, 

That  life  so  mean  should  murder  life  so  great! 

What  is  there  left  to  us  who  think  and  feel, 

Who  have  no  remedy  and  no  appeal, 

But  damn  the  wasp,  and  crush  him  under  heel? 


IN  PACE  KEQUIESCAT. 

[From  Frank  Leslie's  Illustrated  Newspaper.] 
I. 

HUSH,  hush !  speak  softly ! 
The  conflict  now  has  reached  the  end : 

Life  lies  vanquished  on  the  ground ; 

Death  with  victor's  wreath  is  crowned. 
O  angels,  stoop!  O  God,  defend! 

II. 

Toll,  toll,  toll,  toll, 

Ye  brazen  bells  of  woe  and  dread ! 
Thy  requiem  send  throughout  all  lands, 
Sweep  on  to  distant  ocean  strands: 

He  lieth  silent,  —  lieth  dead. 

in. 

Gather,  gather,  clouds, 
O  darkest  clouds  of  sombre  night! 
Lock  the  golden,  smiling  stars 
Safe  behind  thy  prison-bars : 
Grief  wisheth  not,  nor  beareth  light. 

IV. 

Droop,  droop,  Freedom's  flag! 
Float  not  thy  folds  majestic,  proud ; 

Lie  thou  still  across  the  breast 

Of  him  the  country  loveth  best: 
It  is  a  well-befitting  shroud. 

v. 

Yet,  O  Columbia !  free,  — 
Up  from  the  past  there  rings  the  cry: 

"God  reigns  —  the  Government  still  lives!" 
In  the  nation's  heart,  that  honor  gives, 
He  "only  sleeps,"  he  cannot  die. 


54  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

SEPTEMBER  NINETEENTH. 

BY  L.  M.  8. 
[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 

TOLL!  toll!  ye  solemn  midnight  bells! 
From  spire  to  spire  the  thrilling  echo  swells ; 
And  to  our  hearts  the  mournful  story  tells,  — 
Gone  I    Gone !    Gone ! 

Millions  of  watchers  list  with  bated  breath 
To  iron  tongues  that  tell  our  martyr's  death. 
"Is  this  the  end  ?  "  each  to  another  saith,  — 
Gone !    Gone !    Gone ! 

Is  this  the  outcome  of  our  prayers  and  tears? 
The  harvest  of  his  honest  toil  of  years 
Buoyed  by  strong  faith,  and  ne'er  a  prey  to  fears  ?- 
Gone !    Gon« !    Gone ! 

And  has  it  ended  with  the  assassin's  blow  ? 
Why  has  it  been  permitted  so  ? 
We  feel  that  only  God  can  know. 
Gone !    Gone !    Gone ! 

A  finished  life!    More  perfect  in  its  plan 
Than  would  have  been  devised  by  man, 
Perfected  only  as  God  can. 

Gone!    Gone!    Gone! 

Had  he  remained  upon  the  chair  of  state, 
He  scarcely  could  escape  the  fate  — 
Envy  and  misjudgment  —  which  attends  the  great. 
Now  gone !    Gone !    Gone ! 

But  his  sublime  patience  on  a  bed  of  pain 
Has  bound  all  hearts  as  with  an  iron  chain : 
He  has  not  suffered  thus  in  vain, 
Though  gone !    Gone ! 

What  richer  gift  could  bless  him  from  above 
Than  the  whole  nation's  undivided  love  ? 
Without  one  voice  that  will  dissenting  prove, 
Now  he  is  gone ! 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  55 

His  upright  life  lias  stood  each  crucial  test, 
His  living  every  mortal  blest, 
His  saintly  death  completes  the  rest. 
Gone !    Gone !    Gone ! 

No  more  his  voice  a  guiding  star  can  be; 
But  his  great  soul  lives  in  eternity, 
And  his  pure  life  is  a  reality, 
Though  gone. 

Like  the  ripe  sheaf  that  is  cut  and  bound, 
Homeward  along  its  path  is  found, 
Broadcast,  rich  grain  upon  the  ground ; 

So  all  along  the  path  he  moved 

Are  found  in  the  hearts  of  those  he  loved 

Rare  memories  which  his  goodness  proved. 

The  words  that  all  our  hearts  have  thrilled 
Are  ours;  though  the  great  heart  is  stilled, 
And  the  soul  with  noble  motives  filled 
Is  gone  I    Gone !    Gone ! 

Again  our  chieftain's  voice  we  hear: 
As  the  sad  tolling  falls  upon  our  ear, 
The  calling  seemeth  very  near,  — 
Coine !    Come  1    Come ! 

Like  the  bell's  home,  the  tower  high, 
His  life  points  upward  to  the  sky: 
To  his  heart  heaven  was  always  nigh. 
Come  I    Come !    Come  I 

God  heard  our  prayers,  not  as  we  would: 
His  great  love  better  understood, 
And  answered  as  a  Father  should. 
Gone  I    Gone!    Gone! 

Weep,  strong  men !  ye  have  lost  a  friend ! 
With  heads  uncovered  to  your  Maker  bend ! 

He  fashioned  that  great  soul, 

He  destined  this  great  end. 


56  THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES   TO  GARFIELD. 

JAMES  A.   GARFIELD. 

BY  GEOKGE  A.  PARKHURST. 

[From  The  Lowell  Weekly  Journal.] 
REST,  hero,  rest!    Earth's  pains  are  o'er  : 

Thy  greatest  triumph  has  been  won, 
As,  echoing  from  heaven's  golden  door, 

We  seem  to  hear,  "  Servant,  well  done ! " 

Rest,  hero,  rest!    For  thee  no  more 
The  tortured  frame,  the  fevered  brow ; 

But  on  eternity's  bright  shore 
The  peace  of  God  is  with  thee  now. 

Rest,  hero,  rest !    Secure  thy  fame 
Among  the  pure,  the  good,  the  great: 

Time's  record  bears  no  nobler  name 

Of  those  who  sei'ved  their  God  and  State. 

Rest,  hero,  rest !  While  round  thy  bier 
Columbia's  sons  are  bending  low, 

No  clime  but  drops  the  mourner's  tear, 
No  land  but  shares  the  common  woe. 

Rest,  brother,  rest !    In  this  sad  hour 
We  seek  thy  throne,  Father  divine  : 

Though  clouds  of  sorrow  round  us  lower, 

Teach  us  to  have  no  will  but  thine. 
CHELMSFOKD,  MASS.,  Sept.  22, 1881. 


TOLL  THE  BELLS  GENTLY. 

BY  D.  GILBERT  DEXTER. 

[From  The  Cambridge  Tribune.] 
TOLL  the  bells  gently !    Garfield  is  dead ! 

The  nation  is  weeping  a  noble  son  slain: 

It  may  be  his  equal  we'll  ne'er  see  again. 
Toll  the  bells  gently!    Hope  has  not  fled. 

Toll  the  bells  gently !    Toll  them  with  care ! 
"  Great  heart "  is  bleeding,  and  mourning  her  son, 
Whose  greatness  and  goodness  the  world's  homage  won. 

Toll  the  bells  gently !    Toll  them  with  care  I 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  57 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    But  never  despair! 
The  nation  still  lives :  her  sons  may  depart 
Ne'er  to  return  —  let  the  living  take  heart. 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    Toll  them  with  care! 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    From  Elberon's  shore 
There  cometh  a  message  to  daughter  and  son 
That  "  God  knoweth  best"  how  the  victory's  won. 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    The  struggle  is  o'er! 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    From  Washington  home; 
Bind  up  the  hearts  that  are  breaking  in  grief  ; 
God  of  our  fathers,  oh  bring  sweet  relief! 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    In  bearing  him  home! 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    The  noble  one's  slain! 
On  Erie's  blest  shore,  near  the  home  he  loved  best, 
Lay  him  to  rest,  brothers,  lay  him  to  rest. 

Toll  the  bells  gently!    Toll  them  gently  again! 


OUR  DEAD  PRESIDENT. 

[From  The  Boston  Commonwealth.] 

THE  dreaded  news  has  come  at  last. 

Far  o'er  the  land  the  tidings  roll: 
The  lingering  life  from  us  has  past, 

And  grief  and  anguish  fill  our  soul. 

We  watched,  with  tender  care  and  true, 
These  long,  long  weeks  of  suffering  keen: 

Our  hopes  and  prayers  around  him  grew, 
That  better  days  would  yet  be  seen. 

For,  as  the  sun  at  times  will  dart 

Through  clouds  that  threaten  all  the  day, 

So  gleams  of  hope  for  us  would  start, 
And  make  us  trust  the  fuller  ray. 

But  now  we  know  the  night  has  come; 

The  orb  has  set  we  loved  so  well: 
The  patriot  finds  the  heavenly  home 

Where  all  true  souls  in  union  dwell. 


58  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD. 

His  life  was  done.     The  power  yet  lives 
That  builds  a  nation  true  and  wise; 

And  God,  in  his  sad  dying,  gives 
A  morning  promise  to  our  skies. 

For  shall  we  not  more  faithful  be 
To  this  Republic,  torn  and  crost, 

And  place  her  foremost  of  the  free, 
That  nothing  to  mankind  be  lost  ? 

And  shall  we  not  to  her  accord 
A  service  perfect,  wise,  and  true, 

And  help  along  his  good  life-word, 
And  in  our  lives  his  own  renew  ? 


THE  MIDNIGHT  KNELL. 

BY   HENRY  C.   DANE. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 
I  SAT  at  the  hour  of  midnight, 

Weary  and  sad  and  lone, 
In  fancy  watching  the  lamplight 

That  from  tho  sick-room  shone ; 
While  a  silence  deep  and  solemn 

Brooded  over  the  earth,  — 
The  silence  attending  the  column 

Of  angels  —  leading  Death ! 

The  heart  of  Nature  seemed  throbbing 

With  pity,  pain,  and  woe, 
As  it  watched  a  nation  sobbing 

With  anguish  deep  and  low, 
While  it  waited  and  hoped  with  fear 

The  tidings  at  the  dawn,  — 
The  tidings  it  dreaded  to  hear 

From  that  cot  at  Elberon ! 

Once  more  I  perused  the  message,  — 

"  It  still  looks  very  dark  !  " 
And  thought  of  that  noble  visage 

That  lay  in  Elberon's  —     Hark ! 
Out  from  the  towering  steeple, 

Breaking  the  weary  spell, 
Came  the  message  to  the  people,  — 

The  deep,  the  midnight  knell ! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  59 

"  Gone! "  "  Gone! "  it  rang,  —  that  doleful  bell, 

From  spire  and  dome  and  tower, 
Crushing  a  nation  with  its  knell,  — 

That  awful  midnight  hour! 
On,  on  it  rolled  o'er  distant  West, 

Through  valleys  broad  and  deep, 
Waking  a  nation  from  its  rest, 

To  bow  with  grief,  and  weep. 

Daughter  heroic,  and  mother, 

Your  tortures  who  dare  tell,  — 
There  without  son  and  brother, 

By  him  you  loved  so  well. 
A  nation  holds  you  to  its  heart, 

And  hold  you  will  forever: 
It  shares  with  you  the  bitter  part; 

Its  love  nought  e'er  can  sever. 

Gone!  gone!  our  hero-chieftain  gone! 

Struck  in  his  hour  of  might, 
And  falling  o'er  his  work  undone, 

Because  he  dared  the  right. 
•  O  people  boasting  of  thy  power! 

O  nation  just  begun ! 
Learn  thy  lesson  from  this  sad  hour, 

And  see  thy  duty  done! 

Gaze  on  that  f  orm  so  tried  and  torn ; 

Gaze  on  that  deep-scarred  face : 
There  learn  the  lesson  not  yet  won,  — 

The  duties  ye  must  face ! 
O  men  of  honor,  truth,  and  power! 

O  men  of  mighty  zeal ! 
Step  to  the  front  in  this  dark  hour, 

And  help  our  woes  to  heal! 

From  Vernon's  deep  and  silent  shade, 

From  Marshfield's  solemn  shore, 
From  Oakland's  calm  and  peaceful  glade, 

And  all  the  broad  land  o'er, 
From  those  who  sleep  in  patriot  graves, 

The  warning  voice  is  heard,  — 
"  This  is  your  hour!  be  men,  not  slaves! 

Redeem  our  plighted  word  1 " 
BOSTON,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


60  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

"THE  PRESIDENT  IS  DEAD  I" 

BY    S.   V.   A. 

[From  The  Boston  Home  Journal.] 
GONE  in  his  fair  and  manly  prime ; 
Gone  in  his  faith  and  hope  sublime ; 
Gone  when  his  feet  had  climbed  so  high, 
No  step  remained  but  to  the  sky; 
Then  on  earth's  topmost  round,  his  ear 
Caught  greetings  from  the  upper  sphere, 
And  angel  voices  whispered,  "Come! 
Thy  work  is  done!  come  home!  come  home!" 
"I'm  ready;  I'm  content,"  he  said; 
And  while  the  stricken  nation  plead 
In  words  of  agonizing  prayer, 
That  God  her  ruler's  life  might  spare, 
He  with  a  calm,  unfaltering  heart, 
Waited  until  the  poisoned  dart 
Should  end  its  mission,  whether  life 
In  realms  above,  or  toil  and  strife 
Below  might  be  his  lot,  and  still 
Submissive,  bowed  unto  the  Will 
That  holds  the  nations  in  His  hand, 
And  at  whose  word  they  fall  or  stand. 
O  Garfield !  President  beloved ! 
Ruler  and  statesman,  tried  and  proved, 
We  write  thy  name  among  earth's  peers, 
We  send  it  down  the  coming  years, 
Wreathed  with  rich  honors,  memories  proud, 
Of  courage  ne'er  by  evil  cowed, 
Of  patriot  deed,  and  lofty  aim  — 
We  crown  it  with  immortal  fame, 
And  unto  thousands  yet  unborn 
The  heritage  we  leave,  that,  shorn 
Of  all  dishonor,  they  may  tread 
The  rugged  path  of  duty,  led 
By  thine  example,  chaste  and  pure 
As  those  who  martyrdom  endure. 
We  mourn  for  thee  with  falling  tears; 
Our  bosoms  swell  with  rising  fears; 
With  grievous  wounds  our  spirits  bleed. 
O  Father!  in  this  hour  of  need, 
Be  with  our  country :  may  the  rod 
Of  chastening,  watered  with  the  blood 


THE  POETS'    TEIIiUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  61 

Of  this  most  noble  victim,  bloom 
With  (lowers  that  even  o'er  his  tomb 
Shall  shed  such  odorous  sweets,  that  not 
In  vain  the  sacrifice,  the  blot 
That  crimson  stains  our  lovely  land 
From  Eastern  unto  Western  strand. 
May  such  a  band  of  heroes  rise, 
So  loyal,  temperate,  true,  and  wise, 
So  just,  alike  to  friends  and  foes, 
That  his  pure  life,  and  e'en  its  clolse, 
Shall  bear,  though  grief  now  makes  it  mute, 
A  harvest  of  immortal  fruit. 
SEPT.  19, 1881. 


"GOD  GRANT  HIM   PEACE." 

BY  ANNA  FORD  PIPEB. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 

Low  lies  our  noble  dead, 
Who  for  his  country  bled. 

God  grant  him  peace  I 
With  each  new  morning's  ray, 
And  'mid  the  toil  of  day, 
Father,  to  thee  we  pray, 

God  grant  him  peace ! 

Gone  is  our  guiding  hand, 
Gone  to  the  silent  land, 

Gone  evermore ! 
Yet  while  enthroned  on  high, 
Christ  reigns  in  majesty, 
Father,  to  thee  we  cry, 

God  grant  him  peace! 

Pure,  noble,  just,  and  free, 
Still  may  our  nation  be, 

Father,  we  pray. 
May  we  through  darkest  night, 
Led  by  thy  beacon  light, 
Like  him  defend  the  right. 

God  grant  him  peace ! 


62  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

JAMES  A.   GARFIELD. 

BY   EMMA   POMEROY   EATOX. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 
O  SWEET  and  patient  soul,  enduring,  bold!. 
Thy  rare,  ennobling  virtues  were  not  told 
Until,  sore  stricken  by  no  fault  of  thine, 
A  waiting  world  beheld  thy  strength  divine. 

Hast  thou  not  honor,  when  from  east  to  west 
The  whole  world  round  obeys  one  sad  behest? 
Prone  at  thy  bier  a  sorrowing  people  lies, 
And  each  with  all  in  lowly  homage  vies. 

O  noble  one  and  true !  thou  canst  not  die. 
Throned  in  the  nation's  heart,  thou  liv'st  for  aye: 
Thine  aim  and  purpose  shall  thy  life  outrun, 
Nor  aim  and  purpose  die,  though  life  be  done. 
CAMBRIDGE,  Sept.  23, 1881. 


GARFIELD    DEAD. 


[From  The  Capital.] 
"  Duncan  is  in  his  grave: 
After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well. 
Treason  has  done  his  worst;  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  further."  —  Shakspeare. 

HURT  unto  death,  and  dead  at  last.     In  vain 
The  cry  of  anguish  from  the  people  wrung, 
That  like  a  tender  mother  tearful  hung, 

In  grief  sublime, 
Counting  by  pulse-beats  the  fatal  steps  of  time 

Above  that  bed  of  pain. 

The  land  was  dark  with  sorrow.    From  wooded  Maine 
To  where  the  wide  Pacific  chafes  the  Golden  Gate, 
From  blue  North  lakes  down  to  the  Flowery  State, 
From  cities,  hamlets,  mountain,  glen  and  plain, 

E'en  from  the  wilderness, 
Wherever  a  human  heart  has  beat,  or  human  footstep  trod, 

Went  up  to  God 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO  GARFIELD.  63 

The  cry  for  succor  in  our  sore  distress. 

The  fearful  rent, 
That  internecine  war  wrought  us  in  twain, 

His  precious  blood  is  God's  cement, 
To  bind  us  in  one  brotherhood  again. 
Grief  washed  out  Passion's  angry  hue, 
And  mingling  tears  for  him  come  gray  and  blue. 

In  vain 
May  selfish  factions  seek  once  more  to  reign, 

And  stir  to  life 

Our  evil  passions  into  bloody  strife, 
That  once  our  nation's  hopes  in  common  ruin  blent. 
Land  whispered  unto  land.     Beneath  the  solemn  main, 

Through  dark,  unfathomed  caves,  the  lightning-laden  nerve  of  life 
For  an  instant  trembled  with  our  tale  of  pain, 

And  nations  paused,  amid  their  vexing  strife, 
To  send  their  sorrow  back  to  us  again. 
Crowned  heads  were  bowed ;  and  back-bent  toil, 
Watering  with  unrequited  sweat  the  alien  soil, 

With  uncovered  head, 
Stood  in  the  presence  of  our  mighty  dead. 
The  dead  have  lain  in  state, 
The  wise,  the  good,  the  great,  — 
Soldier,  statesman,  potentate,  — 
And  o'er  the  laud,  to  grief  awake, 
Huge  bells  swinging  to  and  fro, 

Solemn  and  slow, 

With  iron  tongues  have  told  their  tales  of  woe, 
While  waves  of  music  beat  upon  the  air 
In  rhythmed  sweetness  all  their  wild  despair. 
It  was  our  living  that  we  laid  in  state: 

And  the  nation,  desolate, 
Through  the  heavy  watches  with  breath  abate : 
And  hearts  nigh  broken  praying  for  the  balm 
Of  health  again ;  for  on  that  quickening  breath 
And  fever-hurried  face  rode  Death. 
Ah !  not  for  him  alone :  we  saw  with  dread 
The  Great  Republic  hanging  by  a  slender  thread; 

And  he  alone  was  calm. 
Patient  and  brave,  as  gentle  as  a  child, 

He  sadly  smiled, 
While  grief  around  was  wild, 

And  took  the  chance  they  gave  him.     Tender  and  true, 
How  sweet  and  homely  were  his  words  of  cheer, 
In  answer  to  his  poor  wife's  tears  and  fear, 


64  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GAEFIELD. 

"  Don't  cry,  sweetheart:  we  will  yet  pull  through.'' 
What  recks  all  glory  to  that  lonely  home, 
Where  sits  the  mother,  aged  and  alone  ? 
Of  all,  alas!  bereft,  sad  she  sits,  and  dreams 

Upon  life's  earlier  scenes,  — 
Of  the  hard  struggle  and  her  noble  son, 
Who  fought  through  all  until  the  goal  was  won; 
And  in  the  hour  of  triumph,  with  loving  grace, 
Turned  to  kiss  her  in  the  nation's  place. 

She  cannot  feel  him  dead: 
His  manly  form  and  noble  head 

Are  ever  with  her;  he's  "  her  baby"  still. 
The  dim  perceptions  cloud  the  present  o'er, 

And  save  the  pains  that  kill. 
The  broken  rainbow  yet  its  arch  retains, 
And  points  to  earth  like  life.     Our  grave  remains, 
Whatever  glory  be  for  us  in  store. 

God  help  the  brave,  true  heart 

That  lost  not  hope  till  hope  itself  was  dead,  — 
The  loving  wife,  who  filled  an  angel's  part, 

And  smiled  to  cheer  above  a  heart  that  bled; 
Who  crowded  down  the  blinding  tears 
And  anguished  fears, 
Hiding  her  pain, 
That  she  alone  might  nurse  her  lord  to  life  again. 

Our  hero's  widow  is  a  nation's  care, 
Her  babes  the  people's  own. 
Ah,  me!  of  what  avail  the  groan, 

The  lamentations  all  must  share  ? 
Vain  mockery  of  words.     They  deeper  grief  will  rtart 
To  one  who  carries  dead  like  this  upon  her  living  heart. 

Thou  art  gone ; 

And  the  great  world  goes  roaring  on,  — 
The  cities  hum  of  human  life,  the  roar 
Of  ocean  on  the  rocky  shore ; 
Season  follows  season;  and  o'er  the  land, 
In  sun  and  storm,  the  farmer's  horny  hand 
Tills  the  warm  earth ; 
Myriads  of  men  have  birth, 
And  myriads  are  carried  to  the  tomb; 
Birds  sing,  and  flowers  bloom, 
And  shining  rivers  roll  in  music  to  the  sear 
No  more,  no  more ;  oh!  never  more  may  we 
Turn  in  our  love  to  thee. 


THE  POETS1   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD.  t>5 

We  search  in  vain, 
By  mountain  side,  or  lake,  or  plain, 
Or  thy  loved  solitude 
Of  thought-haunted  wood, 

Or  rocky  glen, 

Or  'mid  the  busy  haunts  of  men: 
Xo  more  may  we  our  hero  see. 
Thy  kingly  form  is  mouldering  into  dust; 
Thy  spirit  is  with  God,  we  trust; 

Thy  life  has  passed  into  a  memory. 
MAC-O-CHEB,  21st  September,  1881. 


REQUIEM. 

BY  H.  L.  HASTINGS. 
[From  The  Boston  Journal.] 

TOLL,  toll  the  bells! 
The  midnight  silence  waking. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
The  nation's  heart  is  breaking. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
Nor  tarry  till  the  morrow. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
That  voice  a  nation's  sorrow. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
A  stricken  widow  weepeth. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
A  wearied  sufferer  sleepeth. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
Now  to  thy  knees,  O  nation! 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
In  God  is  thy  salvation. 

Toll,  toll  the  bells! 
The  solemn  memory  cherish. 

One  man  has  died,1 
Let  not  the  nation  perish! 
CHELSEA,  Midnight,  Sept.  19, 1881. 

1  St.  John's  Gospel,  zi.  50. 


66  THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

GARFIELD'S  RIDE  AT  CHICKAMAUGA. 

[SEPTEMBER  20,  1863.] 
BY  HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTII. 

AGAIN  the  summer-fevered  skies 

The  breath  of  autumn  calms ; 
Again  the  golden  moons  arise 

On  harvest-happy  farms. 
The  locusts  pipe,  the  crickets  sing 

Among  the  falling  leaves, 
And  wandering  breezes  sigh,  and  bring 

The  harp-notes  of  the  sheaves. 

Peace  smiles  upon  the  hills  and  dells; 

Peace  smiles  upon  the  seas ; 
And  drop  the  notes  of  happy  bells 

Upon  the  fruited  trees. 
The  broad  Missouri  stretches  far 

Her  commerce-gathering  arms, 
And  multiply  on  Arkansaw 

The  grain-encumbered  farms. 

Old  Chattanooga,  crowned  with  green, 

Sleeps  'neath  her  walls  in  peace; 
The  Argo  has  returned  again, 

And  brings  the  Golden  Fleece. 
O  nation!  free  from  sea  to  sea, 

In  union  blessed  forever, 
Fair  be  their  fame  who  fought  for  thee 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

The  autumn  winds  were  piping  low, 

Beneath  the  vine-clad  eaves; 
We  heard  the  hollow  bugle  blow 

Among  the  ripened  sheaves. 
And  fast  the  mustering  squadrons  passed 

Through  mountain  portals  wide, 
And  swift  the  blue  brigades  were  massed 

By  Chickamauga' s  tide. 

It  was  the  sabbath ;  and  in  awe 
We  heard  the  dark  hills  shake, 

And  o'er  the  mountain  turrets  saw 
The  smoke  of  battle  break. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  67 

And  'neath  that  war-cloud,  gray  and  grand, 

The  hills  o'erhanging  low, 
The  Army  of  the  Cumberland, 

Unequal,  met  the  foe ! 

Again,  O  fair  September  night! 

Beneath  the  moon  and  stars, 
I  see,  through  memories  dark  and  bright, 

The  altar-fires  of  Mars. 
The  morning  breaks  with  screaming  guns 

From  batteries  dark  and  dire, 
And  where  the  Chickamauga  runs 

Red  runs  the  muskets'  fire. 

I  see  bold  Longstreet's  darkening  host 

Sweep  through  our  lines  of  flame, 
And  hear  again,  "  The  right  is  lost! " 

Swart  Rosecrans  exclaim. 
"But  not  the  left,"  young  Garfield  cries: 

"From  that  we  must  not  sever, 
While  Thomas  holds  the  field  that  lies 

On  Chickamauga  River!" 

Oh !  on  that  day  of  clouded  gold, 

How,  half  of  hope  bereft, 
The  cannoneers,  like  Titans,  rolled 

Their  thunders  on  the  left! 
I  see  the  battle-clouds  again, 

With  glowing  autumn  splendors  blending: 
It  seemed  as  if  the  gods  with  men 

Were  on  Olympian  heights  contending. 

Through  tongues  of  flame,  through  meadows  brown, 

Dry  valley  roads  concealed, 
Ohio's  hero  dashes  down 

Upon  the  rebel  field. 
And  swift,  on  reeling  charger  borne, 

He  threads  the  wooded  plain, 
By  twice  a  hundred  cannon  mown, 

And  reddened  with  the  slain. 

But  past  the  swathes  of  carnage  dire, 

The  Union  guns  he  hears, 
And  gains  the  left,  begirt  with  fire, 

And  thus  the  heroes  cheers  — 


68  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD. 

"While  stands  the  left,  yon  flag  o'erhead, 

Shall  Chattanooga  stand!" 
"  Let  the  Napoleons  rain  their  lead ! " 

Was  Thomas's  command. 

Back  swept  the  gray  brigades  of  Bragg; 

The  air  with  victory  rung ; 
And  WurzePs  "Rally  round  the  flag!" 

'Mid  Union  cheers  was  sung. 
The  flag  on  Chattanooga's  height 

In  twilight's  crimson  waved, 
And  all  the  clustered  stars  of  white 

Were  to  the  Union  saved. 

O  chief  of  staff!  the  nation's  fate 
That  red  field  crossed  with  thee, 

The  triumph  of  the  camp  and  state, 
The  hope  of  liberty ! 

0  nation !  free  from  sea  to  sea, 
With  union  blessed  forever, 

Not  vainly  heroes  fought  for  thee 
By  Chickamauga  River. 

In  dreams  I  stand  beside  the  tide 

Where  those  old  heroes  fell  : 
Above  the  valleys  long  and  wide 

Sweet  rings  the  sabbath  bell. 

1  hear  no  more  the  bugle  blow, 
As  on  that  fateful  day: 

I  hear  the  ringdove  fluting  low, 
Where  shaded  waters  stray. 

On  Mission  Eidge  the  sunlight  streams 

Above  the  fields  of  fall, 
And  Chattanooga  calmly  dreams 

Beneath  her  mountain-wall. 
Old  Lookout  Mountain  towers  on  high, 

As  in  heroic  days, 
When  'neath  the  battle  in  the  sky 

Were  seen  its  summits  blaze. 

'Twas  ours  to  lay  no  garlands  fair 
.  Upon  the  graves  "  unknown : " 
Kind  Nature  sets  her  gentians  there, 
And  fall  the  sear  leaves  lone. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  69 

Those  heroes'  graves  no  shaft  of  Mars 

May  mark  with  beauty  ever; 
But  floats  the  flag  of  forty  stars 

By  Chickamauga  River. 


THE  MINUTE-BELLS. 

BY  T.   H.   C. 

[From  The  Transcript.] 

THERE  passed  a  sound,  at  midnight,  through  the  land, 
A  solemn  sound  of  sorrow  and  of  fear,  — 
A  sound  that  fell  on  every  wakening  ear 

Bearing  a  message  all  could  understand,  — 

The  good,  brave  chief  struck  by  the  assassin's  hand, 
The  choice  of  one,  but  to  all  parties  dear; 
A  patriot,  honest,  upright,  and  sincere, 

In  presence  noble,  and  in  action  grand. 
And  now  that  death,  through  weeks  of  agony,  ' 
Has  led  him  to  his  rest,  the  nation  sends, 
Like  Egypt  in  her  tenth  and  final  blow, 

Through  all  the  land  a  loud  and  bitter  cry; 
And  feels,  like  her,  as  o'er  her  dead  she  bends, 
There  is  in  every  home  a  present  woe. 


PRESIDENT   GARFIELD. 

[From  The  London  Spectator. "| 
THE  hush  of  the  sick-room;  the  muffled  tread; 
Fond,  questioning  eye;  mute  lip,  and  listening  ear; 
Where  wife  and  children  watch,  'twixt  hope  and  fear, 
A  father's,  husband's  living-dying  bed!  — 
The  hush  of  a  great  nation,  when  its  head 
Lies  stricken !    Lo!  along  the  streets  he's  borne, 
Pale,  through  rank'd  crowds,  this  gray  September  morn, 
'Mid  straining  eyes,  sad  brows  unbonneted, 
And  reverent  speechlessness !  —  a  "people's  voice  I" 
Nay,  but  a  people's  silence!  through  the  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  its  subtler  echoes  roll, 
O  brother  nation!    England  for  her  part 
Iswiththee:  God  willing,  she  whose  heart 
Throbbed  with  thy  pain  shall  with  thy  joy  rejoice. 
SEPT.  6, 1881. 


70  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 


JAMES  A.  GAEFIELD. 

[From  Andrews's  American  Queen.] 
SPEAK  softly;  for  the  midnight  hell  has  tolled, 
And  o'er  the  living  world  the  news  has  sped 
That  he  who  gave  his  life  for  us  is  dead, 
Our  loved  one  that  was  cast  in  knightly  mould. 

Tread  gently  till  that  treasured  form  is  laid 
Beneath  the  sod  he  would  have  died  to  save. 
He  who  on  earth  was  bravest  of  the  brave 

Now  sleeps  in  peace,  none  making  him  afraid. 

Weep  sorely ;  for  our  hearts  are  sore  to-day 
For  him  who  calmly  suffered  and  was  strong,  — 
For  him  who  bore  a  cruel,  bitter  wrong, 

That  centuries  of  tears  can  never  wash  away. 

Speak  kindly:  let  us  chant  our  hero's  praise, 
And  sing  of  deeds  that  won  him  deathless  fame; 
So  that  our  children  may  revere  his  name, 

And  learn  the  mighty  truths  of  former  days. 

Tell  proudly  how,  with  penury's  chill  hand, 
This  son  of  freedom  fought  his  way  to  place; 
Passing  his  compeers  in  the  upward  race, 

Until  he  stood  the  foremost  in  the  land. 

Tread  softly :  he  is  gone,  the  good,  the  just, 
Our  noble  Garfield,  loved  above  his  peers. 
Be  ours  the  pride  within  the  coming  years 

To  cherish  those  he  loved,  —  the  people's  trust. 


IN  MEMOEIAM. 

BY  MRS.  EVA  M°NAIR  PARSONS. 

[From  Louisville  Courier-Journal.] 
THERE  cometh  a  moan  on  the  autumn  air: 
'Tis  the  wail  of  a  nation's  dark  despair; 
And  its  echoes  athwart  the  billows  sweep 
Of  the  mighty  ocean,  dark  and  deep. 
In  accents  low  says  the  voice  of  dread, — 
"  Our  chieftain  is  numbered  with  the  dead." 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  71 

Crushed  by  the  murderers  fatal  shot, 
Now  low  he  lies:  while  a  loathsome  blot 
Made  by  the  deed  our  banner  bears ; 
And  the  constant  rain  of  a  nation's  tears, 
And  the  law's  reward,  and  the  hangman's  due, 
And  the  curse  of  the  noble,  brave,  and  true, 
Can  ne'er  to  its  spotless  woof  restore 
The  pure  and  pristine  hues  it  wore. 

Nothing  can  waken  and  stir  again 
The  busy  thoughts  of  that  silent  brain; 
Nought  of  the  chemist's  or  surgeon's  skill 
Bring  to  the  pulses  the  life's  glad  thrill: 
Worn  with  its  struggle,  the  body's  guest, 
The  tireless  spirit,  has  soared  to  rest. 

O  Goddess  of  Liberty,  veil  thy  face ! 
Plant  thou  a  cypress  within  the  place 
Where  once  in  its  glory  and  grandeur  grew 
The  chartered  worth  of  our  freedom  new, 
And,  over  our  blood-bought  victories  past, 
The  dreary  pall  of  bereavement  cast. 

O  patriots,  rise  and  avenge  the  deed  I 
No  longer  the  brazen  Moloch  feed, 
Which  stretches  its  arms  both  far  and  wide, 
For  the  gains  of  dishonor,  fraud,  and  pride; 
Defiles  the  waters  which  flood  the  state 
With  poisoned  draughts  of  revenge  and  hate; 
While  virtue  in  widowed  sorrow  weeps 
Above  the  couch  where  her  victim  sleeps. 
LOUISVILLE,  KT.,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


THE  SOBBING  OF  THE  BELLS. 

(MIDNIGHT,  SEPTJgMBER  19-20.) 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN. 

THE  sobbing  of  the  bells,  the  sudden  death-news  everywhere, 

The  slumberers  rouse,  the  rapport  of  the  People, 

(Full  well  they  know  that  message  in  the  darkness, 

Full  well  return  the  sad  reverberations,) 

The  passionate  toll  and  clang  —  city  to  city,  joining,  sounding,  passing, 

Those  heart-beats  of  a  Nation  in  the  night. 

[From  a  fortticoming  volume.] 


72  THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 


GARFIELD. 

[From  Puck.] 
LAY  him  to  sleep  whom  we  have  learned  to  love; 

Lay  him  to  sleep  whom  we  have  learned  to  trust. 

No  blossom  of  hope  shall  spring  from  out  his  dust ; 
No  flower  of  faith  shall  bloom  his  sod  above. 

Although  the  sod  by  sorrowful  hands  be  drest, 

Although  the  dust  with  tenderest  tears  be  drenched, 
A  feebler  light  succeeds  the  new  light  quenched, 

And  weaker  hands  the  strong  hands  crossed  in  rest. 

Our  new,  our  untried  leader  —  when  he  rose, 
Though  still  old  hatreds  fed  upon  old  griefs, 
Death  or  disgrace  had  stilled  the  cry  of  chiefs 

Of  old  who  rallied  us  against  our  foes. 

A  soldier  of  the  camp,  we  knew  him  thus: 
No  saintly  champion,  high  above  his  kind, 
To  follow  with  devotion  mad  and  blind,  — 

He  fought  and  fared,  essayed  and  erred,  with  us. 

And  so,  half-hearted,  went  we  where  he  led ; 

And,  following  whither  beckoned  his  bright  blade, 
Learned  his  high  will  and  purpose  undismayed ; 

And  brought  him  all  our  faith  —  and  f ourul  him  dead. 

Is  of  the  sacred  pall,  that  once  of  yore 

Draped  Lincoln  dead,  one  mouldering  fragment  left  ? 

Spread  it  above  him,  —  knight  whose  helm  was  cleft 
Fair  in  the  fight,  as  his  who  fell  before. 

As  his  who  fell  before,  his  seat  we  dress 

With  pitiful  shreds  of  black,  that  flow  and  fail 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  breeze,  whose  wail 

Prays  us  respect  that  hallowed  emptiness. 

Ay  I  who  less  worthy  now  may  take  that  chair, 
If  our  first  martyr's  spirit  on  one  hand 
And  this  new  ghost  upon  the  other  stand, 

Saying,  Betray  thy  country  if  thou  dare  I 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  73 

GARFIELD. 

BY  JAMES   FRANKLIN   FITTS. 

[From  The  Philadelphia  North-American.] 
CHIGKAMAUGA,  SEPT.  19,  1863. 

UNDAUNTED  'mid  the  whirlwind  storm  of  war, 

The  shock  of  surging  foes,  the  wild  dismay 

Of  shattered  legions,  swept  in  blood  away, 
While  the  red  conflict,  thundering  afar, 

Eaged  on  the  left  —  yet  all  unseen,  unknown  — 

Great  chieftain!  man  of  men!  'twas  thine  alone, 
With  faith  and  courage  high,  the  guiding  star 

Of  that  disastrous  field,  to  seek  the  fray 

Where  still  the  hosts  of  Union  hold  their  own, 
With  wasting  lines  that  stand,  and  strive,  and  bleed, 

Waiting  the  promise  of  a  better  day. 
O  steadfast  soul !    O  heart  of  oak !    No  harm 
Could  reach  thee  then :  thou  hadst  for  shield  His  arm 
Who  kept  thee  for  the  nation's  later  need. 


ELBERON,  SEPT.  19,  1881. 

Gone  are  the  weary,  woeful  weeks  of  pain ; 

Dead  are  a  nation's  hopes,  and  hot  her  tears. 

The  immemorial  cycle  of  the  years 
Of  people's  woe  completes  itself  again. 
And  thou,  great  soul!  —  that  through  these  limes  of  peace 

Hast  with  thy  highest  might  that  nation  served, 

And  best  endeavor ;  who  hast  never  swerved 
From  right,  midst  faction's  brawl  that  will  not  cease, 
And  who,  through  all  these  «arking  months  of  woe, 

Hast  held  thyself  as  patient  and  serene 

As  when  on  Chickamauga's  field  between 
The  eddying  lines  that  wavered  to  and  fro 

Like  stormy  ocean  tides,  thou  didst  demean 
Thyself  the  hero,  —  enter  now  thy  rest ! 

A  nation's  grief  shall  keep  thy  memory  green, 
A  nation's  love  enshrine  thee  in  her  breast. 

LOCKPOKT,  N.Y. 


74  THE  POETS'   TEIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

HE  LOVED  OUR  CRAFT. 

BY  E.   S.   B. 

[From  The  Publishers'  Weekly.] 
NOT  as  for  one  who  held  with  steady  hand 
The  centred  interests  of  his  native  land, 
Not  for  a  leader  lost,  a  patriot  dead, 
Alone  our  grief  is  spent,  our  tears  are  shed : 
We  mourn  a  mind  at  rest,  a  great  brain  stilled, 
A  noble  intellezt  in  madness  killed. 
He  loved  our  craft  of  books,  that  gives  to  man 
The  garnered  thoughts  that  past  and  present  span, 
A  tireless  student  still  he  reads  the  page 
That  yields  life-lessons  both  from  wit  and  sage. 
So,  while  we  mourn  our  stricken  ruler  slain, 
Our  deeper  loss  hut  gives  us  deeper  pain. 


GARFIELD. 

BY  ARTHUR  N.   WILLCUTT. 

[From  The  Boston  Post.] 

THE  lightning  rends  the  mighty  oak, 

And  hurls  it  prostrate  to  the  earth  : 

The  power  that  gave  the  deadly  stroke 

Returns  to  whence  it  had  its  birth. 

But  nevermore  will  come  again 
To  life  the  oak,  or  life  to  man : 

Its  glory  was  its  earthly  bane, 
The  height  to  which  its  measure  ran. 

So  Garfield  fell!  the  assassin's  hand 
Was  but  the  force  that  moves  unseen, 

A  test,  perhaps,  for  our  loved  land 
To  try  its  faith,  —  on  God  to  lean. 

Maybe  some  duty  unfulfilled, 
Some  wrongful  act  to  race  or  creed, 

Has  made  the  nation's  life  thus  spilled 
A  sacrifice  to  atone  the  deed. 

And  while  a  wail  goes  o'er  the  land 
At  Garfield's  brutal,  bloody  fall. 

Let  North  and  South  united  stand, 
And  trust  in  Him  who  ruleth  all. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD.  75 


A  NATION'S  SORROW. 

BY  JOHN  BEADE. 

[From  The  Montreal  Gazette.] 
"  Is  this  the  end  of  our  waiting  and  hoping  so  long  ? 

O  Death,  thou  hast  taken  our  hero !    The  vigorous  will 
Is  powerless  now;  and  the  heart,  so  tender  and  strong, 

So  patient  and  loving  to  all,  at  last  is  still. 

"  Oh!  that  such  as  he  should  be  stricken  down  in  his  prime, 

By  a  craven  hand,  out  of  fifty  millions  and  more! 
We  shall  know  what  it  means,  no  doubt,  in  God's  good  time; 

But  now  we  question  in  vain,  and  our  hearts  are  sore. 

"  Thou  hast  pierced  with  thy  sting,  O  Death!  a  nation's  heart: 
Could  nought  but  our  noblest  and  wisest  have  sufficed? 

We  would  bow  to  His  will,  whose  servant,  O  Death!  thou  art; 
But  oh !  must  Barabbas  be  ever  preferred  to  Christ? 

"  O  God !  thou  knowest,  whatever  our  sins  have  been, 
That  he  whom  we  mourn  to-day  was  loyal  and  good : 

His  aims  were  honest,  his  heart  and  his  hands  were  clean, 
He  never  followed  in  evil  the  multitude. 

"  True  patriot  ever,  true  martyr,  —  what  nobler  life 
Lives  in  the  world's  great  record  of  deathless  fame? 

And  ages  hence,  when  hushed  are  these  sounds  of  strife, 
A  grander  nation  in  honor  will  hold  his  name. 

"  Even  now,  as  we  stand  by  our  soldier-statesman's  grave, 

The  martyr-seed  gives  promise  of  blessed  fruit: 
Baffled  and  wan,  Sedition  forgets  to  rave, 

And  Faction,  ashamed,  has  been  stricken  stark  and  mute. 

"  From  former  foes  comes  a  voice  of  generous  sorrow, 
And  North  and  South  have  united  their  tears  for  the  slain; 

While  afar  through  the  mist  of  our  grief  shines  the  dawn  of  a  morrow 
When  to  conflict  peace  shall  succeed,  and  gladness  to  pain." 


Such  is  the  wail  that  we  hear  on  the  southern  breeze, 
From  a  kindred  race  for  a  ruler  of  noble  heart; 

Not  imknown  to  us,  too,  are  such  awful  sorrows  as  these, 
And  fain,  if  we  could,  would  we  neighborly  solace  impart. 


76  THE  POETS'    TEIBUTES   TO   GAEFIELD. 

O  wife  and  children  dear!    O  mother  revered ! 

While  your  nation  weeps  with  you  for  its  martyred  chief, 
His  memory  makes  you  to  all  mankind  endeared, 

And  monarch  and  peasant  share  alike  in  your  grief. 

God  grant  you  comfort,  bereaved  ones,  and  pitying  love, 
To  whom  the  widow  and  orphan  are  ever  dear, 

And  hring  you  at  last  to  that  happy  home  above, 
Where  friends  part  never,  and  love  casts  out  all  fear. 


Thy  ways,  O  God !  are  far  as  east  to  west  from  ours ; 

Thou  seest  of  all  that  happens  beginning,  middle,  and  end ; 
What  now  is  bitter  seed  may  one  day  be  sweet  flowers, 

And  what  seems  now  so  dark  to  light  and  joy  may  tend. 

Even  in  this  sad  season  of  a  nation's  fiery  trial, 
And  searching  of  the  hearts  of  men  that  sit  on  high, 

'Tis  well  to  know,  that,  in  an  age  of  doubting  and  denial, 
There  are  such  men  as  Garfield  was,  in  faith  to  live  and  die. 


IN   MEMOEIAM. 

BY  LILIAN  WHITING. 
[From  The  Cincinnati  Commercial.] 
OH!  where  shall  we  lay  our  deep  sorrow  ? 

How  speak  of  our  loss  ? 
Since  our  hero,  our  martyr,  is  given 
The  crown  for  the  cross  ? 

Since  he,  our  ruler,  our  leader, 

Our  nation's  true  guide, 
Has  entered  that  rest  which  remaineth 

In  the  fair  summer-tide  ? 

He  has  fought  the  good  fight ;  he  has  entered 

The  rest  that  God  gave ; 
And  the  lives  he  has  blessed  bring  the  tribute 

We  lay  on  his  grave. 

For  all,  in  his  presence  benignant, 

Were  exalted  and  cheered ; 
And  virtue  seemed  more  to  be  cherished, 

And  sin  to  be  feared. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.'  77 

Our  country,  whose  lessons  our  martyr 

So  faithfully  taught, 
Brings  its  tears  and  its  love,  —  ay,  its  gladness, 

For  the  work  that  he  wrought. 

Bring  your  gratitude,  country  immortal, 

O'er  land  and  o'er  sea! 
For  the  tears  of  two  nations  shall  mingle, 

Our  hero,  for  thee ! 

Oh!  still  from  that  life  thou  has  entered, 

Behold  us,  we  pray ; 
Vouchsafe  still  to  guide  and  direct  us, 

And  teach  us  the  way. 

And  so,  in  the  hush  of  the  autumn, 

In  its  silence  and  calm, 
We  will  gather  the  few  leaves  of  healing, 

For  sorrow  a  balm ; 

And  remember  his  greatness,  his  honor, 

His  rare  culture  and  grace, 
His  rich  gifts  and  firm  faith  that  no  other 

Can  hope  to  replace. 

And  still  will  the  God  of  the  nations 

Make  our  sorrow  a  shrine 
When  we  wait,  in  sublime  aspirations, 

The  guidance  divine  I 
BOSTON,  Sept.  21, 1881. 


OUR  DEAD  PRESIDENT. 

BY  C.   H.    C. 

[From  The  New- York  Tribune.] 
WHO  has  the  fitting  word, 
When  every  breast  is  stirred 

With  sorrow  far  too  deep  for  words  to  tell  ? 
Yet  as,  amid  death's  gloom, 
Friends  whisper  in  the  room, 

We  speak  of  him  who  lived  and  died  so  well. 

Night  reigned  beside  the  sea, 
When  morning  carno  to  thee, 

Long-waiting  heart,  so  patient  and  so  brave ! 
Light  fell  upon  thy  door, 
Pain  ceased  forevermore, 

Back  to  its  Maker  fled  the  life  he  gave. 


78  THE  POETS'    TEIBUTES   TO   GABFIELD. 

Like  messengers  in  quest, 
Then  started  east  and  west 

Two  tidal  waves  of  sorrow  round  the  world : 
Millions  of  eyes  were  wet 
Before  the  tidings  met 

Where  in  the  Eastern  seas  our  flags  are  furled. 

Quickly,  through  throbbing  wire, 
Those  waves  of  sorrow  dire 

Awoke  across  the  land  the  mournful  bells: 
Men  roused,  and  could  not  sleep ; 
For,  pulsing  strong  and  deep, 

All  hearts  that  knew  were  ringing  funeral  knells. 

Wives  gazed  in  husbands'  eyes, 
And  tears  would  slowly  rise 

For  her  who  fought  with  Death  so  long  alone ; 
And  children  with  no  task 
Were  left  themselves  to  ask, 

Why  Death  this  father  took,  and  not  their  own. 

On  all  the  shadow  falls : 
It  hushes  college  halls, 

It  consecrates  the  cabins  of  the  West ; 
The  freedmen  loved  him  well; 
Soldiers  his  praises  tell; 

The  rudest  boatman  is  too  sad  to  jest. 

Still,  over  hills  and  dells, 
The  beautiful  sad  bells 

Repeat  the  nation's  sorrow  for  her  son ; 
But  he  doth  hear  the  chime 
Of  a  more  peaceful  clime 

Than  Mentor's  fields  or  quiet  Elberon. 

Like  him,  the  Crucified, 
He,  who  so  calmly  died, 

Has  made  the  world  the  better  for  his  pain: 
Surely  we  now  may  know 
Our  leader  was  laid  low 

To  lift  the  nation  to  a  higher  plane. 

We  say  as  once  he  said,  — 
Our  hero-ruler  dead,  — 

"  The  Lord  still  reigns,  the  country  is  secure." 
There's  none  can  fill  his  place: 
Rule  Thou,  O  God  of  grace ! 

And  guide  us  on  to  days  more  bright  and  pure. 


THE  POETS'   TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD.  79 

LAKE-VIEW  CEMETERY. 

BY  W.  D.   KEIXY. 

[From  The  Boston  Pilot.] 

GOD  rest  his  soul!  and  may  the  victor's  crown 

Of  immortality  inwreathe  his  head 

Whose  spirit  from  its  mortal  frame  has  fled ! 
Sadly  and  reverently  we  lay  him  down, 
While,  tolling  in  the  city  and  the  town, 

The  bells  ring  requiems  for  our  ruler  dead ; 

But  all  the  tears  that  sympathy  can  shed 
Serve  not  the  sorrow  of  our  hearts  to  drown, 
Who  recognize  that  he,  whose  noble  life 

Such  woeful  termination  murder  wrought, 
Was  sacrificed  in  an  ignoble  strife, 

Where  worthless  demagogues  for  office  fought, 
Where  greed  was  uppermost,  and  passion  rife, 

And  honesty  of  purpose  valued  nought. 

Back  from  the  seaside,  where  but  yesterday 

We  bore  him  in  the  hope  the  breezy  shore 

His  failing  forces  might  again  restore, 
Only  to  see  them  slowly  waste  away ; 
Into  the  Capitol,  where,  while  he  lay, 

The  spirits  of  the  great  men  gone  before, 

His  predecessors  in  its  halls  of  yore, 
Kept  watch  and  guard  above  his  pulseless  clay; 
To  this  fair  city  of  the  mighty  West, 

To  the  broad  bosom  of  his  native  State, 
That  nursed  him  for  us  on  her  hardy  breast, 

And  sent  him  forth  to  this  untoward  fate, 
We  bring  his  soulless  shape,  that  it  may  rest 

Within  his  mother's  keeping  and  estate. 

But  he  is  hers  no  more !  the  people  claim 

Him  as  their  heritage ;  and  on  the  scrolls 

Where  Immortality  the  names  enrolls 
Of  those  whose  lives  have  won  undying  fame, 
Their  hands  have  written  Garfield's,  and  the  same 

Shall  have  a  charm  to  move  our  children's  souls 

As  long  as  democratic  pride  controls 
Their  hearts,  and  murder  be  accounted  shame: 


80  THE  POETS'   TEIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 

The  South  shall  vie  in  praises  with  the  North, 
The  East  yield  not  in  worship  to  the  West, 

But  all  alike  pay  homage  to  his  worth, 

Who,  if  he  failed  in  some  things,  stood  the  test 

Of  his  last,  greatest  trial,  and  went  forth 

Out  of  his  own  land,  mourned  by  all  the  rest. 

No  king  was  he !  but  never  king,  I  trow, 
Wore  richer  diadems  than  these  our  love 
Places  to-day  his  poor,  pale  brows  above. 

We  could  not  crown  him  while  he  lived ;  but  now 

That  he  has  gone  from  us,  our  hands  endow 
Him  with  the  sceptre,  and  our  hearts  approve 
Whatever  honors  patriotism  may  move 

The  land  to  give  him:  fifty  millions  bow 

In  grief  beside  this  Presidential  grave, 
Where  the  dark  cypresses  their  branches  toss, 

Who  mourn  that  neither  prayer  nor  skill  could  save 
Their  country  from  the  anguish  of  his  loss, 

And  each  one  feels  the  crowns  that  monarchs  have, 
Compared  to  his,  are  vile  and  worthless  dross. 

And  thus  we  leave  him  in  his  narrow  bed, 
Anear  the  margin  of  yon  placid  lake, 
Where  the  soft  music  of  the  waves  that  break 
Upon  the  sandy  shores  beneath  us  spread, 
Sing  their  eternal  requiems  for  the  dead ; 
But  what  can  heal  the  wounds  that  bleed  and  ache 
In  hearts  that  loved  him  for  his  own  dear  sake, 
And  will  not  in  their  grief  be  comforted  I 
O  Christ!  who,  when  the  widow  lost  her  son, 

Gave  him  back  life  to  ease  his  mother's  dole  ; 
With  whom  the  endless  ages  are  but  one, 

That  has  no  origin,  that  knows  no  goal, — 
We  do  not  murmur  that  thy  will  is  done, 
But  crave  thy  rest  for  this  beloved  soul. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  81 


PRESIDENT     GARFIELD. 

BY    HENRY    W.   LONGFELLOW. 

[From  The  Independent.] 

"  E  venni  dal  martirio  a  questa  pace." 

THESE  words  the  Poet  heard  in  Paradise, 
Uttered  by  one  who,  bravely  dying  here, 
In  the  true  faith,  was  living  in  that  sphere 

Where  the  Celestial  Cross  of  sacrifice 

Spread  its  protecting  arms  athwart  the  skies ; 
And,  set  thereon,  like  jewels  crystal  clear, 
The  souls  magnanimous,  that  knew  not  fear, 

Flashed  their  effulgence  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 

Ah,  me!  how  dark  the  discipline  of  pain, 

Were  not  the  suffering  followed  by  the  sense 
Of  infinite  rest  and  infinite  release  ! 

This  is  our  consolation  ;  and  again 

A  great  soul  cries  to  us  in  our  suspense  : 
"  I  came  from  martyrdom  unto  this  peace .'  " 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  Sept.  26, 1881. 


BY    THE    SEA. —SEPTEMBER    19,    1881. 

BY    MRS.    FRANCES    HODGSON    BURNETT. 

WATCHMAN  !  what  of  the  night? 
The  sky  is  dark,  my  friend, 
And  we  in  heavy  grief  await  the  end. 
A  light  is  burning  in  a  silent  room, 
But  we  —  we  have  no  light  in  all  the  gloom. 

Watchman!  what  of  the  night? 
Friend,  strong  men  watch  the  light 
With  the  strange  mist  of  tears  before  their  sight, 
And  women  at  each  hearthstone  sob  and  pray 
That  the  great  darkness  end  at  last  in  day. 

Watchman  !  how  goes  the  night? 
Wearily,  friend,  for  him, 
Yet  his  heart  quails  not,  though  the  light  burns  dim. 


82  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

As  bravely  as  he  fought  the  field  of  life, 
He  bears  himself  in  this,  the  final  strife. 

Watchman!  what  of  the  night? 
Friend,  we  are  left  no  word, 
To  tell  of  all  the  bitter  sorrow  stirred 
In  our  sad  souls.     We  stand  and  rail  at  Fate 
Who  leaves  hands  empty  and  hearts  desolate. 

"  Are  pure,  great  souls  so  many  in  the  land 
That  we  should  lose  the  chosen  of  the  band?" 
We  cry  !     But  he  who  suffers  lies, 
Meeting  sharp-weaponed  Pain  with  steadfast  eyes, 
And  makes  no  plaint,  while  on  the  threshold  Death 
Half  draws  his  keen  sword  from  its  glittering  sheath 
And  looking  inward  pauses  —  lingering  long, 
Faltering —  himself  the  weak  before  the  Strong. 

Watchman  !  how  goes  the  night? 
In  tears,  my  friend,  and  praise 
Of  his  high  truth  and  generous,  trusting  ways  ; 
Of  his  warm  love  and  buoyant  hope  and  faith, 
Which  passed  life's  fires  free  from  all  blight  or  scath. 
Strange  !  we  forget  the  laurel-wreath  we  gave, 
And  only  love  him  standing  near  his  grave. 

Watchman!  what  of  the  night? 
Friend,  when  it  is  past 

We  wonder  what  our  grief  can  bring  at  last, 
To  lay  upon  his  broad,  true,  tender  breast, 
What  flower  whose  sweetness  shall  outlast  the  rest? 
And  this  we  set  from  all  the  bloom  apart : 
"  He  woke  new  love  and  faith  in  every  heart." 

Watchman !  what  of  the  night? 
Would  God  that  it  were  gone 
And  we  might  see  once  more  the  rising  dawn ! 
The  darkness  deeper  grows  —  the  light  burns  low, 
There  sweeps  o'er  land  and  sea  a  cry  of  woe  ! 

Watchman!     What  now?     What  now? 
Hush,  friend — we  may  not  say 
Only  that  —  all  the  pain  has  passed  away. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  83 


SEPTEMBER   19,    1881. 

BY    THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH. 

In  their  dark  House  of  Cloud 
The  three  weird  sisters  toil  till  time  be  sped. 

I. 

CLOTHO. 
How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 

Ere  the  weary  task  is  done? 
How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 

Shall  the  fragile  thread  be  spun? 

LACHESIS. 

"Pis  mercy  that  stays  her  hand, 
Else  she  had  cut  the  thread ; 

She  is  a  woman  too, 
Like  her  who  kneels  by  his  bed  ! 

ATROPOS. 
Patience  !  the  end  is  come  : 

He  shall  no  more  endure ; 
See  !  with  a  single  touch !  — 

My  hand  is  swift  and  sure. 

II. 

FIRST  ANGEL. 

Listen  !  what  was  it  fell 

An  instant  since  on  my  ear  — 

A  sound  like  the  throb  of  a  bell 
From  yonder  darkling  sphere  ! 

SECOND  ANGEL. 
The  planet  where  mortals  dwell ! 

I  hear  it  not  .  .   .  nay,  I  hear !  — 
A  sound  of  sorrow  and  dole ! 

FIRST  ANGEL. 

Listen !     It  is  the  knell 

Of  a  passing  soul !  — 
The  midnight  lamentation 
Of  a  stricken  nation 

For  its  Chieftain's  soul ! 


84  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


GARFIELD. 

[From  The  Springfield  Republican.] 

LAUREL-CROWNED  our  hero  lies  ! 

Heavy  the  hearts  that  loved  him ; 
By  his  bier  the  hitter  tear 

Falls  for  the  fatal  sacrifice ; 

But  his  deeds  shall  live  in  story- 
All  his  greatness,  all  his  glory, 

Trumpet-toned,  recorded  he 

By  the  muse  of  history. 


GARFIELD,   PRESIDENT   OF   THE   PEOPLE. 
(Died,  September  19,  1881.~) 

BY    GEORGE    PARSONS    LATHROP. 

WHAT  is  this  silence,  that  calls? 

What  is  this  deafness,  that  hears? 
The  silence  is  Death.     Like  a  voice  it  falls ; 

It  rings  in  the  heedless  ears, 

That  never  shall  hearken  again 

To  the  words  of  our  blame  or  praise, 

Nor  the  low-hushed  moan  of  a  nation's  pain, 
As  it  rolls  through  the  darkened  days  ! 

And  the  motionless  body  must  yield 

To  the  spell  of  that  hushed  command. 
Oh,  that  one  of  us,  dying,  had  been  the  shield, 

To  save  that  life  for  our  land ! 
Garfield  —  the  name  so  plain, 

The  name  we  knew  so  well !  — 
The  name,  we  shall  never  forget  again, 

Of  the  man  who  for  honesty  fell ! 

Man  that  was  trusted  of  men  — 

Brave,  and  not  fearing  to  die 
More  than  to  face  life's  meanness,  when 

It  clamored  its  partisan  lie  !  — 
Though  you  leave  us,  we  lose  you  not! 

In  the  republic  you  live 
Sacred,  and  part  of  its  deathless  lot, 

For  whose  life  your  life  you  give. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  85 

• 
O  sorrow,  that  falls  like  a  stone 

In  the  midst  of  the  calm  of  our  peace, 
As  the  waves  of  pity  around  you  have  grown, 

So  may  our  truth  increase  ! 
IN  ENGLAND,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


PRESIDENT  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

BY  HJALMAR  HJORTH  BOYESEN. 

[From  The  Independent.] 
YEA,  he  is  dead  whom  in  its  heart  the  nation 

Through  anxious  summer  vigils  sadly  bore, 
And  powerless  are  tears  and  supplication 

To  bring  our  chieftain  back  forevermore. 

The  darkness  swept  him  to  the  shadowy  shore, 
Where  echoes  not  our  voice  of  lamentation ; 

In  vain  the  tolling  bells  ring  dirges  o'er  him, 

And  nations  mourn,  united,  and  deplore  him. 

How  nobly  met  he,  and  with  heart  unquailing, 
In  stalwart  manhood's  prime,  his  bitter  doom ; 

And  bravely  fought,  with  faith  and  cheer  unfailing, 
The  weary  fight  through  endless  days  of  gloom ! 
Nay.  even  within  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 

While  slowly  ebbed  his  strength  and  life-blood  paling, 
His  smile  lit  up  the  night  that  deepened  round  him, 
And  gentle,  fearless,  calm,  Death's  angel  found  him. 

And  how,  with  breathless  hope  and  spirit  shaken, 
The  nation  watched  beside  its  martyr's  bed, 

And  saw  his  life's  flame  nutter  and  awaken 
With  fitful  flicker,  as  it  upward  sped! 
Though  absent,  we  beheld  his  fallen  head, 

Yet  by  its  manly  beauty  unforsaken, 

By  dolor  wasted,  and  his  eye  grow  dimmer, 
Until  the  gloom  engulfed  its  last  fond  glimmer. 

His  was  a  vigorous  soul,  of  ampler  vision 

Than  those  who  blindly  grope  in  honor's  quest. 

Unnurtured  by  Europe's  worn  tradition, 
He  sprang,  puissant,  from  the  virgin  West. 
And,  suckled  at  a  noble  mother's  breast, 

He  drank  our  soil's  stern  manhood  and  ambition, 
And  rose  from  humble  toil  to  heights  of  splendor, 
His  country's  pride  and  hope  and  her  defender. 


86  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD. 

» 
Alas  !  the  dart  of  Death,  with  cruel  fleetness, 

Found  his  great  heart,  for  he  was  foully  slain. 
Yet  his  career  was  grand.     Its  incompleteness 

Gives  it  a  larger  mission  and  domain  ; 

For  vainly  he  lives  not,  nor  dies  in  vain, 
Whose  life  is  full  of  valor,  light,  and  sweetness, 

And  at  whose  bier  a  sundered  people  gather, 

To  weep  as  for  a  common  friend  and  father. 
NEW  YORK  CITY,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


WHY  SHOULD  THEY  KILL  MY  BABY? 

BY    WILL    CARLETON. 

[From  "  Farm  Ballads,"  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York.] 

[The  aged  mother  of  the  President  is  reported  to  have  exclaimed  as  above  upon  heaving  the 
news  of  his  attempted  assassination.] 

WHY  should  they  kill  my  baby  —  for  he  seems  the  same  to  me 
As  when,  in  the  morning  twilight,  I  tossed  him  on  my  knee, 
And  sowed  for  him  hopes  to  blossom  when  he  should  become  a  man, 
And  dreamed  for  him  such  a  future  as  only  a  mother  can. 

I  looked  ahead  to  the  noon-time  with  proud  but  trembling  joy ; 
I  had  a  vision  of  splendor  for  my  sweet,  bright-eyed  boy  : 
But  little  enough  I  fancied  that  when  he  had  gained  renown 
Base  Envy's  poisoned"  bullet  would  suddenly  strike  him  down. 

Why  should  they  want  to  kill  him?     Because  he  had  cut  his  way 
Through  Poverty's  gloomy  woodland  out  into  the  open  day, 
And  sent  a  shout  of  good  cheer  to  those  who  were  yet  within, 
That  honor  is  born  of  striving,  and  honesty  yet  can  win? 

Or  was  it  because  from  boyhood  he  manfully  bared  his  breast 
To  fight  for  the  poor  and  lowly  and  aid  the  sore  oppressed? 
Ah  me  !  the  world  is  working  upon  a  treacherous  plan 
When  he  who  has  struck  for  mankind  is  stricken  down  by  man ! 

Or  did  they  begrudge  his  mother  the  hand  he  reached  her  still, 
No  odds  how  high  he  clambered  up  Fortune's  glittering  hill? 
For  in  his  proudest  life-day  he  turned  from  the  honors  of  earth, 
And  came  and  tenderly  kissed  me  — the  mother  who  gave  him  birth. 

Shame  on  the  wretch  who  struck  him  and  prays  that  the  blow  may  kill ! 
And  pity  for  his  poor  mother,  if  she  be  living  still ! 
May  God  in  mercy  aid  him  his  black  crime  to  atone, 
And  help  me  to  forgive  him  —  I  cannot  do  it  alone  ! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  87 


GARFIELD. 

BY    MARTIN    FARQCIIAR    TUPPER. 

[From  The  New  York  Evening  Post.] 

THE  wondrous  providence  of  God  most  high 

Forever  out  of  evil  worke'th  good, 

And  even  through  that  murderer's  deed  of  blood 
Hath  power  to  draw  divergent  peoples  nigh 

By  one  strong  bond  of  yearning  brotherhood. 

Thou  heaven-born  king  of  men!  to  death  subdued 
After  those  eighty  days  of  struggling  pain, 

Yet  hast  thou  conquered  death,  so  long  withstood  ; 

For  when  at  length  rest  claimed  thee  from  that  strife, 
We  know  thou  didst  not  live,  nor  die,  in  vain  — 

A  man  both  great  in  death  and  good  in  life. 
And  let  us  praise  another,  standing  by, 
Brave-hearted  nurse  through  that  long  agony, 

Angel  of  love  and  hope  —  thy  widowed  wife  ! 
UPPER  NORWOOD,  Sept.  26, 1881. 


ASSASSINATION. 

BY  PAUL    H.    HAYNE. 

O  blinded  readers  of  the  score  of  Time, 

Think  ye  that  Freedom  yields  her  hand  to  crime? 

Or  the  fair  whiteness  of  her  virginal  bud 

Of  heavenly  hope  would  desecrate  with  blood? 

Her  eyes  are  chastened  lightnings,  and  the  fire 
Of  her  divinely  purified  desire 

Burns  not  in  ambush  by  assassins  trod, 
But  on  the  holiest  mountain  heights  of  God ! 

So,  ye  that  fain  would  meet  her  fond  embrace, 
Purge  the  base  soul,  unmask  the  treacherous  face, 

Drop  bowl  or  dagger  while  ye  bring  her  naught 
But  the  grand  worship  of  a  selfless  thought! 


88  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

AFTER  ALL'S  DONE. 

BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    "  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN." 
-".Alia  wife  asked  him  where  was  his  pain.  Garfleld  answered,  "  Darling,  even  to  live  is  pain. 

To  live  was  pain  —  to  die  is  peace  ; 

Falling  asleep  in  tender  arms  ; 

Ended  vain  hopes,  more  vain  alarms, 
Blind  struggles  for  impossible  ease. 

Yes,  life  was  loss,  and  death  is  gain ; 

The  martyr's  blood,  the  church's  seed. 

O  Christian,  to  Christ's  world-large  creed, 
Faithful  to  death  !  —  die,  rise  and  reign  ! 

Reign,  king-like,  o'er  the  souls  of  men ; 

Shame  them  from  paltry  lust  of  gold, 

From  public  honor  bought  and  sold, 
From  venal  lie  of  tongue  or  pen. 
Reign  in  the  hearts  of  women  brave, 

Fit  mothers  of  the  men  to  be ; 

Like  that  true  woman  loved  by  thee, 
Whom  God  so  loved  He  could  not  save. 
But  thou  art  saved  —  her  hero !  Thine 

The  glorious  rest  of  battle  won, 

A  setting  of  the  mid-day  sun, 
And,  lo !  the  stars  burst  out  and  shine. 

No  long  dull  twilight  of  weak  age,  — 

Morn's  glow  forgot  in  misty  night ; 

Thy  record  was  full  writ  in  light, 
And  then  —  thine  angel  closed  the  page. 

All's  done,  all's  said.     The  tale  is  told. 

Across  the  ocean  hands  clasp  hands ; 

One  voice  of  weeping  from  all  lands 
Binds  the  New  World  unto  the  Old ; 

Then  —  silence  ;  and  we  go  our  ways, 
Work  our  small  work  for  good  or  ill ; 
But  thou,  through  whom  the  Master's  will 

Was  done,  and  didst  it,  to  His  praise, 

Go  straightway  into  eternal  light ! 

On  earth  among  the  immortal  dead ; 

In  heaven  —  that  mystery  none  hath  read ; 
We  walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  89 

But  this  we  know,  or  feel,  half  known  : 

He  who  from  evil  brings  forth  good. 

His  message,  although  writ  in  blood, 
He  left  upon  thy  funeral  stone. 


OUR   DEPARTED   PRESIDENT. 

BY    ALFRED    KEVIN,    D.D. 

BEAR  him  back  in  silent  sorrow, 

Place  him  'neath  his  native  sod; 
There  in  angels'  guard  to  slumber, 

Whilst  his  spirit  rests  in  God. 
Bear  him  back,  the  nation's  hero  — 

At  her  highest  altar  slain  — 
Hero  on  the  field  of  battle — 

Hero  on  the  bed  of  pain. 

Bear  him  back,  where  his  dear  household 

To  his  tomb  may  oft  repair  — 
Cherished  mother,  wife  and  children, 

Feeling  that  he  still  is  near. 
Bear  him  back,  the  struggle's  over, 

Doubt  and  weariness  and  pain. 
Though  but  few  may  be  his  cortege, 

Mourning  millions  make  his  train. 

Bear  him  back,  and  though  griefs  passion 

Soon  may  be  assuaged  and  calmed, 
In  the  world  's  well-won  affection 

Will  his  mem'ry  be  embalmed; 
Bear  him  back,  nor  o'er  his  ashes 

Let  a  broken  shaft  be  placed  — 
Life,  though  short,  is  nobly  finished, 

When  with  excellence  so  graced. 

Bear  him  back ;  yet  his  example, 

Bright  and  true,  and  good  and  pure, 
Ling'ring  wit'i  the  stricken  nation, 

Through  long  ages  will  endure. 
Bear  him  back,  nor  let  faith  falter, 

Though  her  prayers  did  not  prevail, 
We  must  trust  in  densest  darkness 

Him  whose  love  can  never  fail. 


90  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


HYMN. 

BY  PROFESSOR  DAVID  SWING. 

Now  all  ye  flowers  make  room, 
Hither  we  come  in  gloom, 
To  make  a  mighty  tomb, 

Sighing  and  weeping. 
Grand  was  the  life  he  led, 
Wise  was  each  word  he  said, 
But  with  the  noble  dead 

We  leave  him  sleeping. 

Soft  may  his  body  rest, 
As  on  his  mother's  breast, 
Whose  love  stands  all  confessed 

Mid  blinding  tears. 
But  may  his  soul  so  white 
Rise  in  triumphant  flight, 
And  in  God's  land  of  light 

Spend  endless  years. 


"ANOTHER    MARTYR." 

BY     PROFESSOR     G.    T.    R.     KNORR. 

ANOTHER  martyr  for  country  has  falPn, 

Another  true  son  been  taken ; 
Again  with  great  grief  does  the  nation  mourn, 

All  hearts  to  woe  forsaken. 
But  the  nation  lives,  and  each  patriot  son 

With  each  patriot  son  shall  vie 
In  recalling  the  deeds  he  has  bravely  done, 

And  his  life's  work  ne'er  shall  die. 

We'll  bear  him  away  —  our  country's  dead  — 

His  bier  with  sweet  flow'rs  o'erstrewing ; 
We'll  lay  him  to  rest  in  our  mother  earth, 

His  grave  with  tears  bedewing. 
But  God  doth  reign,  and  His  praise  we'll  sing, 

Though  deep  in  our  woe  we  lie  — 
We'll  pray  for  strength  in  the  days  to  come, 

And  our  faith  shall  never  die. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  91 

TOLL    FOR  THE  CHIEF. 

BY  CHARLES    J.    BEATTIE. 

[From  the  Inter-Ocean.] 
TOLL  for  the  chief!  the  august  martyr  chief, 

That  so  tenderly  we  carry  to  the  grave, 
As  our  brothers  onward  march,  "beneath  a  living  arch," 
With  slow  and  solemn  tread  march  the  brave ; 
With  arms  reversed  and  craped, 
With  banners  darkly  draped, 
.  As  mournfully  above  his  corse  they  wave. 

Toll  for  the  brave  !  the  gallant  soldier  brave, 

Ever  steadfast  to  his  trust,  ever  faithful,  ever  just ; 
Who,  in  siege  or  battle-field,  was  never  known  to  yield  ; 
Oh,  lay  him  gently  down,  as  we  whisper  "  dust  to  dust." 
Forever  rest  the  dead 
In  this  doubly  honored  bed, 
While  his  spirit  soars  away  from  "moth  and  rust." 

Toll  for  the  true  !  The  statesman,  good  and  true, 

On  the  rostrum,  in  the  forum,  and  the  hall ; 
Who  espoused  the  people's  cause,  for  just  and  equal  laws, 
And  struggled  for  the  right  at  their  call. 
Lay  his  honored  relics  down ; 
He  has  won  a  hero's  crown, 
And  the  nobles  of  the  earth  bear  his  pall. 
CHICAGO,  Sept.  24,  1881. 


GARFIELD. 

[From  London  Punch.] 
So  fit  to  die  !     With  courage  calm, 

Armed  to  confront  the  threatening  dart ; 

Better  than  skill  is  such  high  heart, 
And  helpfuller  than  healing  balm. 

So  fit  to  live  !     With  power  cool 
Equipped  to  fill  his  function  great, 
To  crush  the  knaves  who  shame  the  State,  — 

Place-seeking  pests  of  honest  rule. 

Equal  to  either  fate  he'll  prove  ; 

May  Heaven's  high  will  incline  the  scale 
The  way  our  prayers  would  fain  avail 

To  weight  it  —  to  long  life  and  love ! 


92  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 

ENGLAND  TO  AMERICA. 

[From  London  Punch.] 

SILENCE  were  best,  if  hand  in  hand, 
Like  friends,  sea-sundered  peoples  met; 

But  words  must  wing  from  land  to  land 
The  utterance  of  the  heart's  regret, 

Though  harsh  on  ears  that  Sorrow  thralls 

E'en  Sympathy's  low  accent  falls. 

Salt  leagues  that  part  us  check  no  whit, 
What  knows  not  bounds  of  time  or  space,  — 

The  homestead  feeling  that  must  knit 
World-scattered  kin  in  speech  and  race, 

None  like  ourselves  may  well  bemoan 

Columbia's  sorrow ;  'tis  our  own. 

A  sorrow  of  the  noble  sort, 

Which  love  and  pride  make  pure  and  fair ; 
A  grief  that  is  not  misery's  sport; 

A  pain  that  bows  not  to  despair  : 
Beginning  not  in  courtly  woe, 
To  end  in  pageantry  and  show. 

The  great  Republic's  foremost  son, 

Struck  foully,  falls  ;  but  they  who  mourn 
Brave  life  cut  short,  good  work  half  done, 

Yet  trust  that  from  beyond  Death's  bourne 
That  blameless  memory's  gifts  may  be 
Peace,  Concord,  Civic  Purity. 

Scarce  known  of  us  till  struck  for  death, 
He  stirred  us  by  his  valiant  fight 

With  mortal  pain.     With  bated  breath 
We  waited  tidings  morn  and  night. 

The  hope  that's  nursed  by  strong  desire, 

Though  shaken  often,  will  not  tire. 

And  now  our  sables  type,  in  truth, 
A  more  than  ceremonial  pain. 

We  send,  Court,  Cottage,  Age  and  Youth, 
From  open  hearts,  across  the  main, 

Our  sympathy  —  it  never  swerved  — 

To  Wife  he  loved,  to  Land  he  served. 


THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD.  <)3 


THE   NATION'S   GKIEF. 

BY    PROF.    THOMAS    NELSON    HASKELL. 

WITH  awe  profound  this  day 
The  Nation  bows  to  pray 

In  bitter  grief: 

And  through  the  stricken  land 
The  broken-hearted  stand, 
And  mourn  on  every  hand 

Their  martyred  Chief. 

The  Almighty  Ruler  hears 
His  sorrowing  people's  tears 

Fall  at  his  feet ; 
Makes  our  just  cause  his  care, 
Indites  and  hears  our  prayer, 
And  for  us  still  makes  bare 

His  mercy-seat. 

O  Thou  who  hast  removed 
"Him  whom  the  people  loved"  — 

Thy  servant  rare  — 
Who  gavest  him  strength  and  light 
To  see  and  guard  the  right, 
Still  grant  Thy  holy  might 

To  men  of  prayer. 

Bless  still  our  Nation's  head  — 
Successor  of  the  dead  — 

And  keep  his  life ; 
While  armies  cease  their  tread, 
And  those  who  fought  and  bled, 
Rest  in  their  peaceful  bed, 

Heal  all  our  strife. 

Comfort  each  stricken  one, 
O  God,  the  Father,  Son 

And  Holy  Ghost ; 
While  in  our  hearts  we  own 
That  here  Thy  love  is  known, 
And  Thine  the  only  throne, 

Of  which  we  boast. 
DENVER,  COL. 


94  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


JAMES   A.    GARFIELD. 

BY    WAKE    HUBBELL. 

HE  climbed  the  rough  and  rugged  hill  of  fame, 
And  there  he  writ  his  everlasting  name ; 
In  letters  bright  and  pure  as  shining  gold, 
The  story  of  his  life  he  briefly  told. 

A  little  mound  —  the  greenest  spot, 
And  sighing  winds  around  his  cot, 
And  willows  sad,  and  lone  and  drear, 
And  where  we  all  shall  shed  a  tear. 

The  marble  slab  with  age  will  rust, 

And  bones  of  his  turn  into  dust; 
But  while  the  stars  are  in  the  sky 
His  name  will  live,  and  will  not  die. 
WINTON  PLACE,  O. 


AT  ELBERON. 

BY    FAY    HEMPSTEAU. 

AFTER  so  long  a  time  !  Merciful  father, 
Pity  the  land  were  the  dead  ruler  lies ! 

Vainly  she  utters  her  sorrows  unceasing, 

Earthwardly  bending  her  tear-burdened  eyes. 

Dead  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood  and  lustre ; 

Dead  at  the  crest  of  his  worthy-won  fame ; 
Leaving  enwreathed  in  the  hearts  of  his  people 

Forever,  the  light  of  an  undying  name. 

Grandly  he  wrought  in  the  world's  sturdy  battle ; 

Grandly  he  scaled  honor's  dizziest  height ; 
Then,  as  an  eagle  would,  heavenward  ascending, 

Passed  into  clouds  and  was  lost  to  the  sight. 

Breathless  the  nation  has  watched  o'er  his  pillow ; 

Praying  —  oh,  never  was  earnester  made!  — 
Hoping  —  heart-weary  —  yet  hoping  unshaken 

Still,  that  the  death-angel's  hand  might  be  stayed. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES  TO    GARFIELD.  95 

Through  the  long  days  of  the  fierce-flaming  summer, 

Far  into  autumn-time  bravely  strove  he, 
Only  to  sink  in  the  grasp  of  the  victor, 

There  by  the  shores  of  the  low-moaming  sea. 

Ah !  who  can  say  what  a  sigh  and  a  shudder 
Ran  through  the  uttermost  bounds  of  the  land, 

When  the  deep  tones  of  the  towers  at  midnight, 
Told  the  sad  tale  that  the  end  was  at  hand ! 

Who  that  can  tell  of  the  tears  shed  in  secret, 

Quivering  lips  on  the  down-bended  head, 
As  the  faint  light  of  the  first  rays  of  morning, 

Shone  where  the  hope  of  the  Nation  lay  dead ! 

Bury  him,  then,  with  the  whole  people  weeping! 

Toll  the  slow  bell  in  its  mournfullest  tone ; 
Weep  with  the  widowed  one  ;  weep  for  the  fatherless ; 

Ours  is  a  grief  like  a  kinsman  were  gone. 

Muffle  the  drum,  and  with  low- drooping  banners 
Bear  home  the  soldier-chief,  gone  to  his  rest ! 

There  lay  him  asleep,  the  beloved  of  his  country. 
Close  by  the  wide-spreading  plains  of  the  West ! 
LITTLE  ROCK,  ARK  ,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


JAMES  ABRAM  GAKFIELD. 

BY  SARAH  DEWOLF    GAMWELL. 

[From  The  Springfield  Republican.] 

DEAD?     Did  we  ask  that  he  might  die? 

Is  it  for  this  we  pray? 
Dead?     And  the  heart  of  the  nation  breaks, 

And  the  world  is  dumb  to-day ! 

Clang,  iron  tongues  !     Toll,  muffled  bells  ! 

Ye  powers  of  evil,  come  ! 

Ye  have  done  your  worst ;  ye  have  done  your  best ! 
Midnight  with  us  !  but  he  is  at  rest ! 

And  the  world,  the  world  is  dumb ! 

WE8TFIELD,  Sept.  20,  1881. 


96  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


TO   MRS.    GARFIELD. 

BY    THEODORE    WATTS. 

'  [From  The  London  Athenaeum.]          ' 
UNSULLIED  days  with  toil  and  struggle  rife 

Will  win  at  last ;  yea,  God  had  given  him  all  — 

A  seat  above  the  conflict,  power  to  call 
Peace  like  a  zephyr  o'er  men's  turbid  strife ; 
Home  music  too,  children  and  heroine  wife, 

God  gave  —  then  gave  Death's  writing  on  the  wall, 

And  on  the  road  the  assassin  :  bade  him  fall 
Death-stricken  at  the  shining  crest  of  Life. 

4 

And  yet  our  tears  are  sweet.     God  bade  him  taste 
Honey  and  milk  and  manna  raining  down ; 
Clothed  him  with  strength  for  good  whose  sweet  renown 

Touched  wind  and  wave  to  music  as  it  passed ; 

Then  crowned  him  thine  indeed  —  giving  at  last 
Heroic  suffering,  the  true  hero's  crown. 


IPSA  VIRTUTE  MAJOR. 

BY    D.    A.    CASSERLY. 

[From  The  New  York  Evening  Mail.] 
NOT  when,  on  Chickamauga's  stricken  field, 

The  reeling  ranks  about  thee  fell  or  fled, 

But  thy  brave  spirit,  still  unvanquished, 
Dared  face  the  foe  alone,  untaught  to  yield 
And  made  thy  single  arm  thy  country's  shield  ;' 

Not  when  the  nation  named  thee  for  its  head, 

And  up  earth's  stateliest  heights  thy  footsteps  led, 
And,  lo  !  a  king  of  men  thou  stood'st  revealed,  — 
Wast  thou  so  great  as  on  thy  bed  of  pain, 

Garfield !  so  much  thy  country's  love  and  pride, 
But  greatest  art  thou  now,  when  on  thy  bier 
We  drop  the  bitter,  yet  triumphant  tear  : 
Now  thou  hast  proved  indeed  that  God  doth  reign, 

In  His  own  Kingdom  throned  by  Lincoln's  side. 
NEW  YORK,  Sept.  26, 1881. 

1  "  His  arrival  at  Thomas'  head-quarters  was  like  the  reinforcement  of  a  corps."  —  [Life  oi 
James  A.  Garfield,  A.  8.  Barnes  &  Co.,  1881.] 


THE   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  97 

AT  EEST. 

BY    HARRINGTON    LODGE. 

[From  The  Albany  Journal.] 

DEAR  friends  !  let  us  stop  weeping  ! 
He  is  at  rest  and  sleeping 
In  his  dear  Father's  keeping, 

Freed  from  sorrow,  freed  from  pain  ! 
He  now  is  sweetly  resting 
Where  there  is  no  molesting, 
Where  there  is  no  more  testing 

Of  his  gJntle  love  again. 

He  has  passed  that  dread  portal 
Through  which  every  mortal 
Who  becomes  celestial 

Must  first  pass  to  reach  the  goal. 
At  the  great  portal,  praying, 
He  found  his  dear  friends  staying, 
And  angels  ever  swaying, 

Like  a  magnet  to  its  pole  ! 

He  now  hath  reached  the  heaven 
Where  there  is  no  more  leaven 
To  disturb  his  rest  so  even ; 

In  his  new  and  happy  home 
Are  seraphs  to  enlighten, 
Dear  friends  his  joy  to  heighten, 
And  wisdom,  too,  to  brighten, 

What  was  once  a  sealed  tome. 

If  we  will  live  as  fearless 
As  he,  the  pure  and  peerless, 
We,  too,  may  become  tearless 

In  that  blessed  home  above  ; 
Where  we  again  on  meeting, 
And  after  heavenly  greeting, 
Will  never  know  the  fleeting 

Of  this  earthborn,  changing  love. 


98  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


GARFIELD. 

BY    W.    H.    TENABLE. 

"He  was  a  man."  — Hamltt. 
So  great  was  Garfield  that  he  stood 

Above  the  royal :  —  not  so  great 
But  that  the  poorest,  lowliest,  could 

His  best  example  emulate. 

His  manhood  blossomed  into  fame, 

More  than  hero  is  a  MAN  ; 
O  youth,  that  seek'st  an  honored  name, 

Pursue  the  simple  course  .he  ran. 

A  faithful  man,  he  did  his  best 
As  school-boy  and  as  President; 

The  Holy  Grail  of  Bight  his  quest ;  — 
His  daily  task  a  sacrament. 

Erect  his  statue  in  the  mart, 

Where  it  may  call  to  every  mind 

How  one  who  bravely  does  his  part 

Shall  serve  himself  and  all  mankind. 
OCT.  9, 1881. 


DEAD. 

BY    REV.  W.  C.   RICHARDS. 

[From   The   Chicago    Standard.] 

WERE  all  our  prayers,  then,  vain  —  since  he  is  dead, 
Each  new-born  hope  of  ours  a  painted  cheat, 
While  crape  hangs  heavily  along  the  street, 

Arid,  shrouding  every  home,  a  pall  is  spread? 

Since  his  great  soul  its  shattered  house  has  fled, 
And  Death  has  borne  away  on  stealthy  feet, 
His  life  the  nation  prayed  for  —  is  it  meet 

We  bear  him  to  the  tomb  with  doubt  and  dread? 

The  infidel  may  mock  our  prayers  and  say,  — 

"  Why  did  your  God  not  answer  you  and  save, 
When  human  skill  succumbed  to  fell  despair?  " 

But  taunts  like  this  shall  turn  no  whit  away 

Our  eyes  from  Heaven  to  dwell  upon  the  grave  : 
:i  God's  will  be  done,"  was  faith's  large-answered  prayer! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  99 


TO    THE   MEMORY   OF   OUR   FRIEND   AND   PRESIDENT. 

BY     FANNIE     ISABELLE     SHERRICK. 

[From  The  St.  Louis  Republican.] 

A  NATION  mourns  her  dead ; 
The  honored  dead  who  wakes  no  more  — 
And  sorrow  like  a  mantle  falls 

Upon  her  stricken  head. 
The  soldier  sleeps  —  and  silence  reigns 

O'er  all  the  shadowed  land, 
He  lies  in  state  —  while  thousands  pass  — 

A  mournful,  sorrowing  band. 

The  flickering  light  is  out ; 
Sweet  flowers  strew  his  pathway  now, 
Though  shadows  fall  on  hearts  within 

And  darkness  reigns  without. 
Strong  men  kneel  down  and  children  stand 

With  hushed  and  wondering  breath ; 
While  hand  in  hand  the  states  draw  near 

To  mourn  his  early  death. 

A  mother  mourns  her  dead ; 
The  loving  dead,  who  nevermore, 
With  loyal  heart  and  kindly  hand, 

Will  stroke  her  silvered  head. 
Poor  mother-heart,  which  long  ago 

Throbbed  to  his  baby  kiss  ; 
So  empty  now  —  so  old  and  worn  — 

Ah !  what  a  grief  is  this  ! 

A  wife  calls  back  her  dead ; 
The  sacred  dead,  who  from  death's  sleep 
Came  back  to  her,  and  in  her  eyes 

His  last  dread  sentence  read. 
Sad  heart !  that  beats  to  funeral  bells 

And  sound  of  music  low  ; 
Whose  children's  sobs  add  pain  to  pain 

And  lessen  not  her  woe. 

A  nation  mourns  her  dead ; 
From  shore  to  shore  the  colors  fly, 
And,  waving  sadly,  droop  and  lie 

Above  the  soldier's  head. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD. 

A  cross  gleams  in  the  evening  sun 

As  moves  his  funeral  train, 
Past  heads  uncovered  —  hearts  bowed  down 

Beneath  the  nation's  stain. 

A  nation  mourns  her  dead ; 
But  o'er  his  grave  her  children  meet, 
And  heart  to  heart  are  joined  again 

Where  once  dissensions  led. 
O  God !  if  from  his  martyr-death 

Sweet  peace  should  spring  again, 
Then  could  we  say,  with  chastened  hearts, 

He  hath  not  died  in  vain. 


HIS  MOTHER. 

BY    EMILY    H.     LELAND. 

[From  The  Wisconsin.] 

GOD  send  you  cheer,  O  mourning  one  ! 

For  God  was  kind  to  give  to  you 
This  noble  son,  who  held  your  love 

Through  all  these  years  so  warm  and  true. 

And  God  was  kind,  when  on  your  breast 

A  bonny  babe  he  smiling  lay, 
To  send  no  shadow  of  the  doom 

For  which  a  nation  mourns  to-day. 

Yet  who  shall  comfort  grief  like  this  — 
Too  deep  our  broken  words  to  heed !  — 

Not  swift  the  tears  to  aged  eyes, 

The  poor  crushed  heart  must  inward  bleed. 

"  I  shall  be  with  him  soon  !  "   Dear  soul !  — 
God's  comfort  is  already  yours. 

The  pity  is  for  us  who  lack 

The  faith  that  through  such  woe  endures. 

As  the  strong  one  who  climbs  the  steep, 
Then  turns  and  stoops  with  proffered  hand, 

So  waits  your  boy,  while  downward  shines 

The  radiance  of  the  heavenly  land. 
SEPTEMBER,  1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  101 


BY   THE   TOMB. 

BY    ALFHONSO    A.    HOPKINS. 
[From  The  American  Rural  Home,  Rochester.] 
SLEEP  well,  O  hero  of  heroic  mould ! 

We  bend  beside  thy  hallowed  bier,  to-day, 

And  on  it  all  our  costly  tribute  lay 
Of  love  and  loss  no  tongue  has  ever  told. 
And  while  to  thee  the  mysteries  unfold 

Which  wait  beyond  us,  we  can  only  pray, 

To  Him  who  led  thee  on  thy  bleeding  way, 
That  some  clear  light  our  nation  may  behold, 

And  walk  therein  to  higher,  nobler  planes. 

So  shall  our  loss  fruit  into  God's  own  gains ; 
So  may  the  darkness  that  did  wrap  us  round 
At  last  be  radiant  with  a  glory  found 

Above  our  grief,  and  out  of  woe  come  weal 

That  on  thy  tomb  shall  set  the  Lord's  own  seal ! 


TOLL  YE  THE  SOLEMN  BELLS. 

BY    ELIZABETH    YATES    RICHMOND. 

[From  The  Inter-Ocean.] 

TOLL  o'er  the  stricken  land  the  solemn  bells, 

Along  the  hills  and  palpitating  coast. 
Furl  ye  the  flags  that  drape  ten  thousand  masts 

Upon  the  seas,  'mong  surging  billows  tossed.. 

A  prince  of  ours,  of  nature's  regal  line, 

Sleeps  by  the  sounding  surf,  unwaked  to-day ; 

Around  him  roars  the  funeral  dirge  of  time, 
Old  ocean's  canticles,  unhushed  alway. 

While  nations  weep,  or  dynasties  go  down, 
Or  whirlwinds  wreck  the  cities  of  the  past, 

Or  tempests  shiver  down  earth's  mightiest  thrones, 
Or  sands  o'er  empires  drift,  tossed  by  the  blast, 

Down  by  the  sounding  sea,  with  tears  we  lay 

The  great,  strong  heart,  so  strained  and  overtasked, 

The  wan,  worn  hands  that  would  have  wrought  this  day 
The  sturdy  toils  for  which  the  century  asked. 


102  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 

Sealed  is  the  page  the  hushed  historian  keeps, 
Silenced  the  records  of  great  deeds  undone  ; 

Bowed  are  the  councillors  at  the  city  gates ; 

Mournful  the  people,  with  white  lips  struck  dumb. 

0  chronicler,  who  writeth  up  the  years, 

Stand  on  the  threshold  with  thy  pen  uplift ; 
His  record  lieth  yonder,  where  the  stars 

Of  vast  eternities,  uncounted,  drift. 
AFPLETON,  Wis.,  Sept.  22,  1881. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  MESSAGE. 

BY    ELLEN    H.    RUSSELL. 

[Prom  The  Troy  Times.] 

IN  the  soft  September  midnight,  when  the  city  lay  asleep, 
And  the  stars  their  watch  were  keeping,  and  a  hush  was  on  the  deep,- 
There  was  no  voice  of  herald,  no  footstep  on  the  street, 
But  we  heard  the  midnight  message  where  the  night  and  morning  meet. 

We  were  watching,  we  were  praying,  and  the  nation  held  its  breath, 
For  its  hope  lay  in  the  balance  —  was  it  life,  or  was  it  death? 
When  a  horror  of  great  darkness  dropped  its  pall  on  every  mind, 
For  up  the  valley  came  to  us  the  bells  upon  the  wind. 

We  had  heard  these  bells  at  midnight,  when  they  rang  the  New  Year's  birth, 
And  a  song  of  joy  and  gladness  floated  o'er  the  list'ning  earth ; 
They  had  tolled  for  grief  and  mourning,  they  had  pealed  for  thanks  and  cheer ; 
But  they  never  tolled  so  slowly,  and  they  never  fell  so  drear. 

When  the  wild,  wild  rain  is  falling,  he  will  never  hear  its  beat; 
When  the  winter  winds  are  wailing  he  will  rest  —  his  sleep  is  sweet; 
When  all  life's  waves  and  billows  shall  rend  "your  hearts  and  mine," 
His  hands  are  crossed  forever  in  faith's  eternal  sign. 

How  we  loved  him !  how  we  mourn  him,  Columbia's  dearest  son ! 

It  never  was  so  hard  to  say,  "  0  God,  Thy  will  be  done." 

That  great,  sweet  soul  —  that  noble  heart  —  that  manhood  in  its  glory  — 

Were  they  ours,  and  have  we  lost  them?     Shall  he  only  live  in  story? 

He  is  not  dead,  he  is  not  dead !  he  lives  within  each  heart, 
More  lasting  than  the  sculptor's  stone,  more  sweet  than  poet's  art : 
The  simple  grandeur  of  that  life  each  hour  its  story  tells  : 
While  memory  lasts  shall  hallowed  be  the  message  of  the  bells. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD.  103 


LINCOLN   AND   GARFIELD. 

BY    O.    EVERTS. 

A  NATION  mourns.     Its  flag  is,  sorrowing,  furled. 

Nor  faith,  nor  hope,  nor  love  could  save  from  death, 

Nor  tears,  nor  prayers  prolong  the  vital  breath 
Of  him,  the  foremost  man  of  all  the  world. 
Why  should  such  shafts  at  such  a  mark  be  hurled? 

Inscrutable  thy  ways,  O  Providence  ! 

And  high  above  this  plane  of  grovelling  sense, 
Where  mortals  crawl  and  question  God's  intent ! 
And  still  "  God  rules  "  —  "  The  government 

Lives  on  "  —  as  when,  in  yonder  Capital, 
Aforetime  lay  a  murdered  President ! 
Lincoln  and  Garfield !  —  names  forever  blent, 

The  brightest  blazoned  on  Columbia's  scroll, 
Where  "Washington  "  still  glows  with  lustre  permanent! 


THE  NATION'S  SORROW. 

BY  CARRIE  A.   SPAULDING. 

[From  The  Springfield  Republican.] 
HUSH  !  for  the  hour  is  holy  in  its  speeding, 

A  grief  too  great  for  words  is  over  all, 
Stricken  with  sadness,  solace  all  unheeding, 

Lo  !  at  the  feet  of  the  Unseen  we  fall ! 

Bow  —  for  the  stroke  is  heavy  in  its  falling, 
Crushed  to  the  earth  in  all  its  weight  of  woe ; 

What  future  terror  can  be  more  appalling  — 
What  darker  fortune  can  be  ours  to  know? 

Mourn  —  for  the  star  is  dim  whose  glorious  beaming 
Shed  rays  of  lustre  all  the  nation  o'er ! 

And  while  upon  celestial  hills  'tis  gleaming, 
We  walk  in  darkness  on  the  earthly  shore  ! 

A^i,  Garfield !  nobler  than  memorial  stone 
Affection's  tribute  on  thine  altar  laid ! 

The  memory  of  thy  glorious  name  alone 

Shall  brighten  when  the  last  "  immortelles  "  fade. 

Marbles  may  crumble,  fame's  applause  depart, 

But  thy  renown  is  graven  on  the  heart ! 


104  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD. 

And  now,  while  muffled  drum  and  tolling  bell 
Have  ceased  to  echo  all  our  spirit's  grieving, 

Borne  tenderly  by  those  who  loved  thee  well, 
In  the  cold  grave  thy  hallowed  dust  we're  leaving. 

We  render  back  our  treasure  to  the  Giver, 

And  catch  a  glimpse  of  angels  o'er  the  river ! 

O  Father !     In  this  hour  of  bitter  weeping, 
When  far-off  nations,  all  as  mourners  stand, 

Be  thou  our  leader  :  in  Thy  holy  keeping 
Preserve  our  fair,  our  well-beloved  land. 

So  shall  we  rise  from  this  all-chastening  rod 

And  victors  be,  through  an  all-conquering  God. 

HAVERHIIX,  N.  H.,  Sept.  26, 1881. 


DEPARTED. 

BY    JAMES     B.    KENTON. 

[From  The  New  York  Home  Journal.] 

WHITHER  no  human  eye  can  follow  him, 
Nor  vexing  sounds  from  any  earthly  shore, 

Into  a  distant  country,  vast  and  dim, 
He  hath  departed  hence  forevermore. 

From  human  honors  fleet  as  human  breath 
To  higher  glories  his  brave  soul  hath  fled, 

And,  in  the  wide  mysterious  realms  of  death, 

He  takes  his  place  beside  the  world  's  great  dead. 

Unfinished  lies  the  work  he  had  begun  — 
To  cleanse  the  land,  to  heal  a  mighty  wrong  — 

But  still  we  know,  from  that  which  he  hath  done, 
How  masterful  his  spirit  was  and  strong. 

Lo  !  in  the  presence  of  death  's  mystery 
Hushed  are  the  mocking  voice  and  bitter  sneer, 

While  now,  through  rifted  clouds,  at  last  we  see 
How  calm  his  loyal  manhood  shone  and  clear. 

So  as  a  people  that  is  without  hope 

We  cannot  mourn  ;  for,  like  a  beacon  light, 

Illuming  the  dense  gloom  in  which  we  grope, 
His  lofty  faith  shines  out  across  the  night. 

* 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    OARFIELD.  105 

And  though  the  master  sleep  the  final  sleep, 

And  sounds  of  menace  swell  upon  the  breeze, 
Some  careful  hand  along  the  troubled  deep 

Shall  guide  the  Ship  of  State  through  perilous  seas. 


GARFIELD'S   GRAVE. 

BY    W.    E.    M. 

t          BESIDE  a  new-made  grave  the  nation  stands, 

The  North  and  South  commingling  mutual  tears  ; 
Across  the  mound  they  clasp  fraternal  hands, 
And  bury  there  the  hate  of  all  the  years. 

And  if  from  out  the  sadly  cherished  dust 
There  spring  the  flowers  of  confidence  and  love, 

Of  sympathy  and  undivided  trust, 
Will  grander  monument  be  raised  above? 

Or  if  the  sctilptured  marble  rears  its  head, 
Telling  the  noble  deeds  that  he  has  done, 
What  truer  words  to  write  above  the  dead, 

"  HE  DIED  AND,  DYING,   MADE  HIS  PEOPLE  ONE  "? 

MARIETTA,  GA. 


ACROSTIC. 

BY    EDWARD    F.  HOVEY. 

[From    The    Alta    California.] 
JOY  turns  to  grief.     A  statesman  wise,  — 
A  noble  chieftain,  —  bravely  dies. 
Millions  bowed  down  now  mourn  and  weep, 
Expressing  love  and  sorrow  deep. 
Sovereigns  and  subjects,  high  and  low, 
Attesting  grief,  kind  words  bestow. 
Greatest  of  earthly  honors  here  ; 
And  now  a  well-won  crown  up  there  ! 
Remembered  ever  be  his  name ; 
Forever  known  his  worth  and  fame. 
In  loyal  hearts  from  sea  to  sea, 
Enshrined  his  image  e'er  will  be, — 
Living  still,  though  gone  before,  — 
Dead,  yet  living  evermore. 


106  THE  POETS1    TRIBUTES   TO    GAEFIELD. 


OUR   DEAD   PRESIDENT. 

BY    LOUISE    V.    BOYD. 

[From  The  Indianapolis  Journal.] 
HIGH  in  the  heavens  Jehovah  hath  his  throne, 

Thick  clouds  and  darkness  are  his  secret  place, 
But  tender  was  the  voice  that  called  his  own, 

"  Come  to  my  presence  and  behold  my  face." 
Yet  we  are  mourning,  all  uncomforted  — 

A  mighty  people,  pouring  our  lament 
On  the  wild  autumn  winds,  for  he  is  dead, 

Our  chosen  chief,  our  Christian  President. 
Oh !  our  good  soldier,  brave,  and  true,  and  tried, 
Thy  country's  sons,  all  comrades  by  thy  side, 

Felt  every  pain  that  thou  wert  called  to  feel. 
Son,  husband,  father,  though  we  think  of  thee 
At  rest,  and  crowned  with  immortality, 

Thy  God  and  ours  alone  our  woe  can  heal. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

BY    W.  E.  PABOR. 

[From  The  Denver  Republican.] 
WE  knelt  before  the  ark  of  prayer, 

A  nation  wrapped  in  robes  of  grief; 

We  cried,  Oh,  spare  our  chosen  chief! 
The  life  of  one  we  honor,  spare  ! 

In  aureole  of  purest  light 

We  saw  the  angel  of  the  Lord 
Beside  the  ark,  with  flaming  sword, 

That  sent  its  shimmer  through  the  night. 

The  sword  was  drawn  in  lifted  hand, 
As  with  one  tongue  a  nation  spoke  :  — 
O  angel,  spare  the  fatal  stroke, 

And  leave  him  to  a  loyal  land. 

His  heart  is  whiter  than  the  snow ; 
His  soul  is  stainless ;  touch  him  not, 
Till  in  the  fulness  of  man's  lot 

The  time  shall^come  for  him  to  go. 


THE   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    OARFIELD.  107 

Alas  !  the  angel  would  not  heed ! 

With  streaming  eyes  we  saw  the  sword 

Obey  the  mandate  of  the  Lord ; 
No  tears  nor  prayers  could  intercede 

To  stay  the  stroke.     A  nation  waits 

In  robes  of  sackcloth  at  a  shrine 

Where  lovevthough  human,  seems  divine, 
While  sorrow  opens  wide  her  gate. 

Dead  chieftain !  on  thy  bier  we  lay 

Our  last  sad  tribute,  wet  with  tears, 

A  token  for  all  coming  years 
Of  what  is  in  our  hearts  to-day. 

As  generations  come  and  go, 

Thy  name,  grown  greater  with  the  years, 

Will  shine  as  suns  shine  in  their  spheres. 
With  whiteness  whiter  than  the  snow. 
ABGTLE  PARK,  DEKVEB,  COL.,  Sept.  26, 1881. 


GAKFIELD. 

BY   J.    E.    FOX. 

[From  The  Chicago  Times.] 

A  SORROWING  world  beheld  the  awful  strife 
At  Elberon,  in  fear,  with  bated  breaths. 

The  wrestling  agony  of  death  and  life 
Is  o'er.     Alas  !  the  victory  is  death's. 

'Twas  fitting  he  should  die  where  ocean's  surge 
Might  bear  his  requiem  to  all  lands  and  skies, 

And  men  and  angels  hear  the  swelling  dirge 

Of  the  "great  deep,"  mid  heavenly  symphonies. 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well." 
Murder  hath  done  its  worst.     With  mournful  tone 

And  saddest  cadence,  the  long-dreaded  knell 
Proclaims  the  death  of  a  proud  nation's  own. 

The  patient  sufferer  gains  a  restful  sleep 
At  last,  and  peaceful,  in  the  quiet  grave. 

Yet  a  great  people  doth  not  cease  to  weep 
For  one  its  prayers  did  not  avail  to  save. 


108  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

Humanity's  true  heart  in  anguish  throbs 
Near  to  the  portals  of  our  Garfield's  tomb, 

And  strong  men's  tears  and  women's  choking  sobs 
Tell  of  the  nation's  grief  and  utter  gloom. 

Yet  Garfield  lives !     For  his  immortal  name 
Will  shine  forever  from  historic  page  ; 

Ay,  light  the  future  with  undying  flame, 

And  shed  its  lustre  on  remotest  age. 
BOCKFOKD,  ILL. 


TOLL  THE  DEATH  BELL. 

BY    CHARLES    .T.    BEATTIE. 

TOLL  the  death  bell  to  greet  the  people's  ears 

With  solemn  sounds  of  unaffected  woe ; 
Can  nature's  raindrops  match  a  nation's  tears 
That  from  the  eyes  of  sorrowing  millions  flow  ? 
Furl  your  bright  flags, 

And  let  the  muffled  drum 
Tell  all  the  suffering  land 
His  hour  of  rest  has  come. 

Death  strikes  the  ruler  of  a  mighty  state, 

Marks  the  proud  head  that  wore  the  people's  crown, 
Prostrates  among  his  peers  the  good  and  great, 
Seizes  the  chief,  regardless  of  renown. 
Close  your  grand  marts, 

And  drape  your  august  domes, 
King  Death  is  here 

And  strikes  ten  million  homes. 

Sorrow  is  brooding  o'er  the  stricken  land, 

Grief  darkens  every  home,  dims  every  eye ; 
From  shore  to  shore,  from  centre  to  each  strand, 
We  hear  the  wail,  and  note  the  rising  sigh ; 
The  sounding  minute  gun, 

War's  requiem  o'er  his  bier, 
Speaks  his  last  battle  won, 

His  last  sad  bivouac  here. 
CHICAGO,  Sept.  20,  1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  109 


THE  COUNTRY'S   PRAYER. 

BY    MINNIE    B.    NOYES. 

[From  The  Springfield  Republican.] 

Music  —  "Dead  March  in  Saul." 
FATHER,  who  heedest  the  humblest  sparrow's  fall, 

Hear  now,  we  pray,  our  nation,  sore  bereft 
By  tribulation's  darkest  night,  we  call  — 

Blindly,  thy  face  seek  we  with  grief  distressed. 
Grant  us  thy  peace  and  teach  us  now  to  say, 

"  Thy  way,  O  Lord,  not  ours,  we  know  is  best." 

All  sounds  are  hushed,  save  lamentation  low, 
The  busy  world  throws  off  its  daily  care, 

And  suppliant  all  before  thy  throne  we  bow, 
And  pray  for  strength  this  heavy  cross  to  bear. 

He  liveth  still ;  while  we  below  must  wait, 
A  martyr's  crown  shall  he  forever  wear. 

Cease,  then,  all  tears  —  we  look  above  and  pray  — 
"  Be  ours  his  faith,  in  life  or  death  sustained, 

O  God,  be  near,  our  faltering  steps  to  stay !  " 
The  changing  years  his  meni'ry  shall  retain, 

And  to  Columbia's  sons  shall  every  day 

Be  proof  indeed,  he  lived  nor  died  in  vain. 
BBBNARDSTON,  Sept.  23,  1881. 


A  TRIBUTE. 

BY    SAKAH    J.    BURKE. 
[From  The  New  York  Tribune.] 
OH  !  what  avail  the  groans  that  burst 

From  lips  of  strong  men  bowed? 
And  what  avail  the  tears  that  gush, 
As  women  weep  aloud? 

And  what  avails  that  homes  are  draped 

In  weeds  of  deepest  woe, 
As  though  beneath  each  roof-tree  dear 

The  dead  were  lying  low? 

Ah,  only  this  !  —  a  nation  finds 

A  comfort,  sad  and  sweet, 
Breaking  the  alabaster  box 

Of  perfume  on  his  feet ! 


110  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 

"THE   GOOD   DIE   NOT." 

BY    LEWIS    J.    CIST. 

THE  good  die  not :    this  heritage  they  leave  — 
The  record  of  a  life  in  virtue  spent ; 

For  our  own  loss  at  parting,  though  we  grieve; 
Lives  such  as  theirs  build  their  own  monument. 


HIS   FIRST   SABBATH   IN   HEAVEN. 

BY    S.    L.    LITTLE. 
[From  The  Providence  Sunday  Slar.] 
How  calm  is  the  glow  of  this  first  Sabbath  morn, 
Since  with  hearts  stricken  down  in  their  grief, 
In  his  palm-covered  coffin  we  laid  him  away  — 
Our  martyred  illustrious  chief! 

What  a  change  since  his  last  suffering  Sabbath  on  earth. 

Those  groans  for  that  rapturous  song 
Which  only  the  ransomed  of  Jesus  can  know  — 

The  blood-washed,  the  glorified  throng ! 

The  victor  in  Christ  over  death  has  prevailed ! 

And,  oh,  how  divine  his  reward ! 
Without  one  faint  shadow  he  seeth  unveiled 

The  glorious  face  of  the  Lord. 

Oh,  vision  of  visions  !  the  sight  of  that  face 

Would  for  ages  of  misery  atone  ! 
The  lovely  Redeemer  of  Adam 's  lost  race  — 

The  conqueror  of  Death  on  His  throne ! 

Were  the  gates  left  ajar  as  he  passed  to  his  rest? 

Were  some  wandering  rays  downward  borne? 
Such  a  heavenly  radiance  seems  to  invest 

The  skies  on  his  first  Sabbath  morn. 

But,  chastened  and  sprrowing  nation,  oh,  learn 

The  lesson  our  Father  would  give, 
From  the  ways  that  have  grieved  his  good  Spirit  return, 

Repent,  seek  His  mercy  and  live. 

Then  for  the  bright  light  now  removed  from  our  skies, 

That  has  left  us  in  darkness  to  mourn, 
New  stars  for  our  hope  and  our  guidance  shall  rise, 

Till  breaks  the  millennial  morn. 
PROVIDENCE,  Oct.  1, 1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  Ill 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   GARFIELD. 

BY    MARTIN    MACMASTER. 
[From  The  Atlanta  Constitution.] 
AH  !  Garfield,  our  president,  has  left  us  at  last ; 
His  sufferings  are  over,  his  sorrows  are  past ; 
He  has  left  us,  and  gone  on  a  little  before, 
To  greet  us,  to  meet  us,  on  yon  beautiful  shore. 
He  was  ready,  and  waiting,  to  answer  that  call, 
Which,  sooner  or  later,  must  come  to  us  all,  — 
Willing  to  stay,  yet  ready  to  go, 
Calmly  he  waited  God's  will  for  to  know. 
For  long,  dreary  weeks  on  his  bed  has  he  lain, 
Weary  and  worn  with  anguish  and  pain ; 
But  meekly  and  calmly  resigned  to  his  lot, 
Like  his  Master,  he  bore  it  and  murmured  not. 
Though  you  once  wore  the  blue,  and  I  wore  the  gray, 
O  Garfield,  we  mourn  thee,  we  miss  thee  to-day ; 
For  a  true,  noble  soul  from  this  world  has  sped, 
And  a  brother  beloved  lies  cold  and  dead. 
Like  a  hero  he  lived,  like  a  martyr  he  died ; 
In  affliction's  sore  furnace  full  well  was  he  tried. 
It  is  right,  it  is  well,  it  is  all  for  the  best, 
For  the  Master  has  taken  His  servant  to  rest. 
ATLANTA,  GA.,  Sept.  21,  1881. 


THE    MARTYR'S    CROWN. 

BY    L.    D.    COLE. 

[From  The  Boston  Traveller.] 

'Tis  well  that  sackcloth  drapes  our  streets,  and  elegies  are  said, 
And  solemn  hours  are  set  apart  to  mourn  the  mighty  dead. 
But  while  I  share  a  common  grief,  born  not  of  common  sin, 
I  thank  my  God,  who  governs  fate,  that  such  a  man  has  been. 
To  rise  from  out  the  lowest  depths  that  poverty  can  give, 
To  prove  that  not  by  things  without  do  men  most  nobly  live ; 
With  sword  unsheathed  in  Freedom's  cause  to  cut  oppression's  cord ; 
Still  listening,  midst  the  swirl  of  men,  to  hear  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord ;  " 
To  rise  to  more  than  kingly  power,  with  more  than  kingly  grace, 
And,  like  the  sun  on  Gibeon,  still  keep  the  zenith  place ; 
With  hands  clasped  o'er  his  couch  of  pain,  to  bridge  deep  hate's  abyss, - 
Might  not  a  martyr  shed  his  blood  for  such  a  crown  as  this? 


112  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


GARFIELD. 

BY    T.    AV.    PARSONS,    JR. 

WE  called  him  great ;  for  in  every  part 

He  seemed  colossal ;  in  his  part  and  speech, 
In  his  large  brain,  and  in  his  larger  heart. 

And  when  upon  the  roll  his  name  we  saw, 

Of  those  who  govern,  then  we  felt  secure ; 
Because  we  knew  his  reverence  for  the  law. 


DE   PROFUNDIS. 

BY    MRS.    M.    E.    W.    SHERWOOD. 

[From  The  Boston  Traveller.] 

NOT  ours  to  ask  the  sad  and  gloomy  question, 
Why  evil  flourishes,  and  good  is  crushed ; 
Buddha  is  silent,  Jupiter  is  voiceless, 
Our  oracle  is  hushed. 

That  all  religions  have  the  same  intentions ; 
That  temples,  shrines,  the  same  fair  offerings  show ; 
That  all  men  kneel,  in  hours  of  heavy  sorrow, 
Is  all  we  know. 

Obedient  to  the  sacrificial  spirit, 
Hound  the  white  oxen's  throat  we  draw  the  knife ; 
Would  offer  up  our  sheaves,  our  flowers,  our  firstlings, 
For  that  one  life  !      t 

O  shot !  that  struck  through  every  heart,  rebounding, 
O  grief!  that  rends  each  household  in  the  land, 
O  Death !  that  winds  in  gloomy  chain  of  sadness 
A  weeping  band  — 

Was  this  thy  message?  this  the  nation's  chrism? 
Wrote  the  Eecording  Angel  on  his  roll 
That  we  must  offer,  as  our  expiation, 
That  great  white  soul  ? 

Not  lost,  these  weary  days  we  wept  and  waited, 
Not  all  in  vain  this  sorrow,  if  our  loss 
Reminds  us  that  the  type  of  our  religion 
Is  but  a  Cross. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD.  113 

FUNEKAL   SONG. 

BY    MISS    ARABELLA    ROOT. 
[From  The  Inter-Ocean.] 

SLOWLY  and  sadly  bear  to  the  tomb 

Him  whom  we  loved  so  well, 
Pride  of  the  nation  veiled  now  in  gloom 

By  the  dread  fun'ral  knell. 
Silently,  tearfully,  keep  sacred  tread, 
Bearing  to  rest  the  brave  hero,  now  dead ; 
Tenderly,  lovingly  weep  o'er  the  bier 
Holding  the  form  of  our  President  dear. 

Grand,  noble  chieftain,  great  and  good  man, 

Fond,  tender  husband,  too  ; 
Kind,  loving  father,  righteous  his  plan, 

Loyal  to  all  good  and  true. 
Peacefully  sleeping  his  long,  last  sleep, 
Nation  and  family  sorrow  and  weep ; 
Free  now  from  suff'ring,  and  resting  from  care, 
May  we  all  meet  him  in  heaven  "  over  there." 


THE   EAST   TO   THE    WEST. 

BY    BEN    VAIL,    JR. 

[From  The  Washington  Republican.] 
OPEN  thy  arms,  O  West !     Receive  thy  son ! 

His  heart  so  long  has  yearned  for  thy  embrace ! 
He  comes  to  sanctify  the  soil  whereon 

He  erstwhile  walked  and  looked  into  thy  face. 

Thy  grief  is  ours  —  with  thine  our  tears  shall  blend  ; 

We  feel  the  blow  and  bow  beneath  the  stroke ; 
The  stricken  ones  who  weep  beside  their  dead 

Are  ours  and  yours  to  cherish  and  defend. 

Perish  the  name  of  him  whose  cruel  rage 
Has  clothed  the  nation  in  her  weeds  to-day, 

And  marred  our  second  century's  spotless  page 
With  stains  his  blood  can  never  wash  away. 

Open  thy  gates,  O  West !     Receive  thy  son  ! 

Death's  proudest  trophy  now  to  thee  we  send, 
With  trembling  lips  we  say,  His  will  be  done 

Whose  watch-care  compasseth  the  end. 


114  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAEFIELD. 


JAMES   ABEAM  GARFIELD. 

[From  The  Pilgrim  Press.] 

GOD  gave  him  lavishly  of  His  best  gifts  : 

A  rev'rent  heart,  on  which  his  dear  ones  leaned ; 
A  scholar's  brain,  which  had  large  learning  gleaned ; 

And  living  speech,  which  gleamed  with  golden  rifts. 

For  what  new  scenes,  his  life  the  curtain  shifts, 
He,  rarely  furnished,  for  the  part  appears  : 
A  hero,  statesman,  in  our  sorest  years, 

From  right  he  never  falters,  swerves,  or  drifts. 

For  three  glad  months  he  bears  our  chiefest  name  : 
Two  more,  foul  stroke  !  we  see  him  facing  death, 
Tender,  serene,  and  brave,  his  parting  breath  : 

Henceforth,  the  nation  keeps  enshrined  his  fame. 
Mid  drooping  flags,  and  grief's  sad  symbol's  all, 
She  solemn  treads ;  she  bears  his  funeral  pall. 


IN   MEMORIAM  — J.    A.    G. 

BY    E.    P.    PARKER. 

[From  The  Hartford  Courant.] 

IN  peace,  at  last !  amid  the  hush  of  strife  r 

Our  ruler  sleeps,  secure  from  plaint  or  blame  : 

The  tragedy  and  triumph  of  his  life 

Blend  in  the  splendor  of  unfading  fame. 

Our  prayers  and  tears,  poured  out  like  summer  rain, 
Stajred  not  the  Hand  that  works  by  pain  and  loss ; 

His  will  be  done,  whose  love  ordains  again 
The  bitter  Cup,  the  Garden,  and  the  Cross. 

Great  heart;  brave  soul;  capacious,  cultured  mind; 

Most  gallant  foe;  most  gentle,  generous  friend; 
Scholar  and  soldier;  statesman,  of  the  kind 

"Who  purity  with  self-devotion  blend  !  — 

The  true  unswerving  aim,  the  purpose  high, 

The  faithful,  patient  service,  —  wear  their  crown  : 

No  sacrifice  that  loyalty  could  try 

But  shines,  transfigured,  in  his  bright  renown. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  115 

Not  less  the  nation's  than  the  household  loss ; 

Nor  less  the  public  than  the  private  woe ; 
His  country's  children  share  his  children's  cross  — 

Their  tears  of  love  and  grief  together  flow. 

Life's  work  well  done,  life's  battle  bravely  fought, 

And  life  itself  poured  out  in  duty's  ways; 
Hallowed  by  death  what  lips  and  life  had  taught, 

And  name  and  memory  wreathed  with  deathless  praise ;  — 

Thy  glory,  like  some  newly-dawning  sun. 

Resplendent  breaks  throughout  our  dark  cloud  of  fate ! 
Immortal  honor  thou  hast  dearly  won  ! 

Nor  richer  thou  than  we,  in  thine  estate. 

Oh,  good  and  faithful  servant !  fare  thee  well ! 

"  Well  done  !  "  innumerable  voices  cry; 
And  happier  throngs  our  salutations  swell 

With  "  Welcome  !  "     "  Welcome  !  "  from  an  answering  sky. 


1865  —  LINCOLN  —  GARFIELD  —  1881 . 

BY    J.    W.    ROSS. 

LINK  we  their  names  together  —  two 

Whose  worth  our  tongues  but  feebly  tell. 
Just,  fearless,  faithful,  always  true 
To  Him  whose  will  they  sought  to  do. 

Martyred  —  and  crowned !     'Tis  sad  ••—  'Tis  well ! 
Noble  were  both,  and  brave. 
Speak  it  by  Garfield's  grave. 

Ay,  link  these  names  together,  when 
In  future  years  your  children  ask, 
"Who  were  our  country's  greatest  men?  " 
Speak  to  them  of  her  martyrs  then. 
Greater  to  name  would  prove  a  task. 

Great-hearted  both,  and  brave. 
Speak  it  beside  this  grave. 

Well-rounded  lives  were  they,  and  grand 
In  their  completeness.     God  knew  best 
How  to  dispose  their  days.     Our  land, 
Discerning  now  His  righteous  hand, 
Bows  to  the  dust  with  heaving  breast, 

And  yields  "  to  Him  who  gave"  — 
Meekly  —  at  Garfield's  grave. 


HKPT.  26,  1881. 


116  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIE  LI). 

HIS     EXAMPLE. 

BY    ADDISON    P.    BROWNE. 

[From  The  Boston  Traveller.] 

THE  solemn  funeral  words  have  all  been  said 
And  mournful  bells  have  rang  their  final  peal, 
But  yet  our  nation's  heart  must  deeply  feel 

Abiding  sorrow  for  her  chieftain  dead. 
Days,  weeks,  and  years  will  come  and  glide  away 
While  tender  recollection  burns  with  ray 

That  keeps  in  view  how  well  this  leader  led. 

And  while  his  mighty  trials  make  us  see 
Beyond  our  former  scope  of  joy  and  pain, 
The  pure  examples  from  his  life  contain 

A  stately  lesson  that  will  ever  be 

In  sacred  fervor  taught  and  understood, 
And  prove  anew  graves  do  not  hold  the  good, 

For  Garfield  was  the  soul  of  manhood  free ! 


ASSASSINATED! 

BY    FLORENCE    I.    DUNCAN. 

[From  The  Philadelphia  Press.] 
HE  dies  !  and  by  arm  so  ignoble  ! 

O  Fate  !  thy  ways  are  mystery, 
Thy  problems  so  insoluble, 

We  are  but  dumb  in  view  of  thee. 
Dumb  !     We  may  not  articulate 

In  choicest  word,  in  formal  phrase, 
The  wond'ring  grief  we  ne'er  may  state 

In  lamentation's  lyric  lays. 
And  so  this  strange,  hard,  woful  cry, 

That  rends  its  rightful  way  to  air, 
May  well  precede  the  gentle  sigh 

That  Time  may  bring  to  trust  and  prayer. 

Time  !     Take  you  now  our  grief  in  charge. 

To  thee  we  trust  the  sad  solution. 
Time  may  our  sight  and  faith  enlarge. 

Time  only  brings  griefs  diminution. 
O  Fate  !     O  Time  !     We  who  are  mortal, 

Between  these  upper  stones  and  nether, 
Can  only  hope  the  promised  portal 

Where  we  shall  leave  ye  twain  together. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELH.  *117 


SLEEP   ON,    O   COMRADE   OF   THE   SWORD! 

BY    COL.    W.  A.  TAYLOR. 

ILLUSTRIOUS  dead  !     O  glorious  light 
That  wraps  the  soldier  statesman's  dust ! 
O  broken  sceptre,  keen  but  just, 

That  cleft  the  day  out  of  the  night ! 

Thou  art  no  pillar  fallen  prone, 

No  wreck  upon  time's  wreck-strewn  shore, 
Thy  name  shall  grow  from  more  to  more, 

For  all  thy  work  was  nobly  done. 

This  was  thy  greatest :  when  you  fell 
Before  the  greedy  spoilsman's  rage, 
You  solved  the  problem  of  the  age, 

And  after  history  will  tell 

How  the  republic  rose  and  spoiled 
The  spoilsman  in  his  mad  career, 
And  wrought  within  this  sacred  year 

All  that  for  which  the  nation  toiled. 

O  noble  offering  on  the  shrine 
Of  purer  things  and  loftier  days  ! 
Up  from  the  darkness  of  the  ways 

Shall  come  effulgent  light  divine,  — 

Shall  come  the  alembic  that  will  burn 
The  greed  for  power,  the  lust  for  spoil, 
Crowning  the  worth}'  sons  of  toil, 

And  shed  its  brightness  on  thy  urn. 

Here  grief  hath  not  one  dark  regret, 
Sorrow  no  bitterness  of  woe, 
And  on  thy  turf  the  tears  that  flow 

Are  gems  in  love's  own  beauty  set. 

Strong  heart  that  quailed  not  at  the  cry 
Of  harpies  in  their  quest  for  blood  ; 
Brave  lion,  falling  where  you  stood, 

Thy  great  achievements  cannot  die. 

O  baptism  red  !     O  sacrifice 

Of  greatness  for  the  righteous  cause  ! 
Truth,  justice,  better,  purer  laws  — 

Thy  glorious  monument  shall  rise. 


118  *  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

In  thy  dead  face  we  fa.intly  see 
God's  purpose  of  the  after  years, 
And,  watered  by  the  nation's  tears, 

The  harvest  of  the  Yet-to-be. 

O  comrade !  tried  on  fields  of  fire, 
And  true  amid  the  battle's  shock, 
Thy  purpose,  firmer  than  a  rock, 

Shall  grow  the  nation's  one  desire. 

Till  thy  dead  face  shall  rise  and  glow, 
Like  Arcturus  in  yon  blue  sky, 
A  quenchless  beacon  shining  high, 

To  point  to  us  the  path  to  go. 

For  her  —  God  help  her  in  her  need  — 
Who  buckled  on  thy  battle  gear, 
And  sent  thee  forth  with  smile  and  tear  — 

For  her  each  soldier's  heart  will  bleed. 

For  her  —  God  help  her  while  she  weeps  —  , 
Who  crowned  thee  with  life's  proudest  rays, 
When  peace  came  with  the  shining  days  — 

Each  soldier's  heart  a  vigil  keeps. 

Sleep  on,  O  comrade  of  the  sword ! 

O  civic  hero,  nobly  crowned  ! 

Sleep  till  the  last  reveille  sound, 
While  fame  and  history  stand  guard. 


THE  DEATH  OF  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

BY  E.   P. 

[From  The  Denver  Republican.] 
ANOTHER  mournful  cavalcade  — 

With  solemn  mien,  and  measured  tread, 
With  muffled  drums,  and  badge  displayed, 

In  memory  of  the  illustrious  dead; 
While  from  city,  town,  and  plain 
The  cannon's  peal  resounds  again. 

One  of  Columbia's  noblest  sons  — 
He  who  stood  foremost  in  the  field 

To  save  his  country  from  the  wrongs 
Of  the  usurper,  bade  him  yield, 

Ne'er  to  invade  our  hallowed  soil, 

Our  wealth  and  treasures  to  despoil. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  119 

A  hero  gone,  with  honors  crowned ; 

Peace  to  his  ashes  —  let  him  rest; 
A  nation  mourns ;  one  so  renowned 

Has  gone  to  mansions  of  the  blest. 
A  statesman,  warrior,  patriot  fled 
To  mingle  with  his  kindred  dead. 

His  name  will  live,  will  treasured  be  — 

Shall  we  e'er  see  his  like  again?  — 
Who  swayed  his  sword  for  liberty, 

Our  rights  and  freedom  to  maintain ;  — 
On  history's  page  emblazoned  be, 
For  unborn  millions  yet  to  see. 
DENVER,  COL.,  Oct.  1, 1881. 


TEARS  FOR  THE  UNREQUITED  DEAD. 

BY    CHARLES    L.    HILDRETH. 

[From  The  New  York  Evening  Telegrnm.] 
TEARS  for  the  unrequited  dead; 

Tears  for  the  hapless,  whom  the  sun 

Of  fortune  never  shone  upon ; 
Tears  for  the  weary  feet  that  bled 

Unseen  along  life's  thorniest  ways  ; 

For  him  whose  labor  earned  no  praise ; 
For  him  who  garnered  fruitless  years ; 

Whose  lowly  love  to  man  was  given, 

And  gained  no  smile  from  man  or  heaven: 
For  these  be  tears. 

But  he  whose  loftier  destiny 

Marked  him  among  the  throng  of  men 
For  fortune's  highest  honors,  then, 

Ere  time  had  tarnished  them,  to  die 
And  leave  to  history  a  name 
Unspotted,  and  a  martyr's  fame ; 

Who  in  the  vigor  of  his  years 
Climbed  rugged  Glory's  final  steep, 
There  made  his  bed,  and  fell  asleep ;  — 
He  needs  no  tears. 


120  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

OUR   PRAYER. 

BY    ANDREW    J.    KENNEDY. 

[From  The  St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch.] 
AY  !  half-mast  our  starry  banner ; 

Let  not  its  folds  float  out  on  high, 
For  our  hearts  are  deep  in  sorrow  — 

In  death  doth  our  chieftain  lie. 

The  dismal  hour  is  upon  us, 
The  stricken  nation's  tears  are  shed, 

And  the  hope,  that  late  lived  in  us, 
With  our  President  is  dead. 

God's  ways  are  all  past  our  knowing, 
But  still  in  His  goodness  we  trust, 

And  confide  to  Him  the  keeping 
Of  our  martyred  chieftain's  dust. 

Jehovah  !  give  strength  and  comfort 
To  all  the  patriots  in  our  land, 

And  defend  our  future  chieftains 
From  the  assassin's  bloody  hand. 


GARFIELD. 

BY    E.    C.    POMEROY. 

[From  The  Buffalo  Commercial  Advertiser.] 
A  STRICKEN  nation  mourns  to-day 

Its  grandly-fallen  chief; 
The  old,  the  young,  the  grave  and  gay 

Are  bowed  alike  in  grief; 
A  solemn  hush  is  in  the  air, 

And  on  the  sober  earth, 
As  if  all  things  were  joined  in  prayer  — 

And  lost  were  joy  and  mirth. 

The  strange  decorum  of  the  street  — 

The  sound  of  hoof  and  wheel  — 
Where  earnest  men  in  business  meet 

To  chaffer  of  their  deal, 
Have  all  the  same  sad  tale  to  tell 

Of  sorrow's  overflow  — 
Of  how  the  martyred  hero  fell  — 

Of  how  we  feel  the  blow. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD.  121 

Oh,  now  we  know  how  weak  we  are ; 

God  help  us  in  this  hour ! 
As  tender  blade  and  flaming  star 

Reveal  Thy  love  and  power; 
Give  us  to  see,  in  that  pure  light 

Thou  sheddest  from  above, 
How  this  dread  lesson  of  Thy  might 

A  lesson  is  of  love. 

And  not  in  vain  will  death  have  cast 

Its  shadow  o'er  the  land, 
If  future  years  redeem  the  past 

And  we  united  stand,  — 
In  firm  alliance  each  with  each 

To  keep  the  sacred  trust 
Our  fathers  left,  by  deed  and  speech, 

Above  their  hallowed  dust. 

'Tis  well  ye  gather  'round  his  bier 

With  mourning  speech  and  song,  — 
Not  soon  again  ye'll  find  his  peer 

In  any  earthly  throng ; 
And  grander  faith  no  man  hath  shown  — 

If  we  but  prove  it  just  — 
Than  this  he  spake  with  dying  groan  : 

"  The  people  are  my  trust." 

Write  out  these  words  on  plates  of  gold, 

And  stamp  them  on  each  heart ; 
For  in  their  sense  they  plainly  hold 

The  sum  of  freedom's  chart. 
The  craft  of  kings  may  prop  their  fall 

When  sceptred  crowns  grow  dim, 
But  freedom  shall  outlive  them  all 

If  we  are  true  to  him. 

Oh,  could  we  read  the  lengthening  scroll 

Of  earth's  immortal  men, 
In  that  high  court  of  last  control 
Where  angel  scribes  make  up  the  roll 

With  God's  unerring  pen,  — 
We  there  should  see,  in  one  bright  place, 

The  true  Shekinah  flame, 
And  in  its  midst  the  blazoned  trace 

Of  GARFIELD'S  brighter  name. 
BUFFALO,  Sept.  26, 1881. 


122  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    OAR  FIELD. 


THE   DEAD   PRESIDENT. 

BY    CHARLOTTE    L.    SEAVER. 

[From  The  Buffalo  Express.] 

SEPTEMBER  20,   1881. 
THE  lights  are  out !     The  guests  are  gone  ! 

And  just  one  little  hour  ago 
The  room  was  filled  with  sounds  of  mirth, 

Till  solemnly  and  clear  and  slow 
The  bell  within  the  City  Hall 

Sent  forth  a  sudden  cry  of  pain, 
And  then  a  silence  fell  o'er  all, 

As,  slowly,  once  and  once  again, 
There  came  the  measured  Toll !  Toll !  Toll ! 

Till  twenty  times  the  still  night  air 
Had  throbbed  and  quivered  'neath  the  sound, 

Like  some  great  heart  in  wild  despair. 
Dead !  Dead  !  Dead  !     The  sound  died  out, 

And  lips  grew  still  and  cheeks  grew  pale, 
As  one  by  one  from  ivied  tower 

And  steeple,  like  a  long,  sad  wail, 
Broke  forth  the  bells  all  through  the  land ; 

And  strong  men  sobbed  and  bowed  their  head, 
And  trembling  voices  murmured  low  : 

"  God  help  us  now  — our  ruler's  dead  !  " 

SEPTEMBICU  26TH. 
The  day  is  almost  ended  now, 

And  far  away  from  here  I  know 
They've  laid  our  President  to  rest, 

And  sorrowful  and  sad  and  slow 
They'll  turn  away  and  leave  him  there. 

How  sweet  will  be  his  sleep  to-night ! 
No  pain  !  no  weariness  !  no  care  ! 

No  tears  !  no  sun  or  moon  for  light, 
Because  the  Lamb  of  God  is  there. 

So  strong,  so  brave  'mid  fiercest  pains ! 
What  must  it  be  to  rest  to-night 

And  know  his  work  is  done.     God  reigns ! 
The  God  he  loved  and  served  so  well ! 

To  know,  as  surely  he  must  know,  , 

That  from  his  death  will  surely  spring 

The  seeds  his  life  was  shed  to  sow  — 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  123 

The  seeds  of  purity  and  truth ! 

Of  Government  without  one  stain  ! 
Of  honor !     Oh,  God  grant  that  at 

The  harvest  time  no  blot  remain  ! 


J.  A.  G. 

BY    H.    8.    M. 

[From  The  Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin.] 
O  WAVE  of  human  might  and  thought  and  art, 

Crested  anon  with  war  or  simple  peace  ; 

Along  the  shore  of  aged  centuries 
Thy  power  hath  cast  no  kinglier  head  and  heart. 

His  was  the  strength  thou  broughtest  from  the  heights, 
Anointed  with  the  warrior-blood  of  old; 
That  toward  the  sun  in  sturdy  billows  rolled 

A  race  of  noble  muscle-armored  knights. 

O  thou  incarnate  spirit  of  the  West, 
Who  drank  the  mountain  cup  of  hardihood, 

And  learnt  the  lordly  forest  eloquence, 
And  fed  thy  soul  at  Freedom's  scarred  breast ; 
Behold !  divinely  human  attitude  ! 
Thy  death  become  the  trump  of  Providence ! 


THE   LEADER'S   PLACE. 

BY    ELLA   WHEELER. 

[From  The  Chicago  Tribune.] 
PELL-mell  they  rushed  in  one  mad  race, 
All  eager  for  the  Leader's  place. 
With  muttered  curse  and  threatening  frowr. 
They  elbowed  one  another  down. 

The  sceptred  hand  —  the  robes  of  state  — 
They  hurried  on,  the  prize  was  great. 

When  lo  !  a  hush  came  o'er  the  crowd ! 
The  boldest  of  them  paused,  and,  cowed, 

Looked  in  each  other's  eyes  with  tears 
That  washed  out  bitter  hate  of  years. 

The  Leader's  place  they  said,  with  fear, 
Was  but  a  waiting  shroud  and  bier. 


124  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

THE   FUNERAL   DAY. 

[From  The  Buffalo  Express.] 

PEACE  !     Let  the  sad  procession  go 
While  cannon  boom  and  bells  toll  slow, 

And  go  thou,  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar ! 

Go,  darkly  borne  from  State  to  State 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 
To  honor  all  they  can 
The  dust  of  this  good  man. 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
The  greatest  kings  must  die  to  gain. 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave. 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 
And  strangers  far  and  near, 
For  many  and  many  a  year. 


SEWPOBT,  KY. 


GARFIELD. 

BY   B.    B. 

[From  The  Cincinnati  Commercial.] 

'  An  eagle,  towering  in  his  pride  of  place, 
Was,  by  a  mousing  owl,  hawked  at  and  killed. 

REST  now,  afflicted  one, 
Thy  task  of  anguish  done, 
Nobly  thou  hast  endured. 

So  short  thy  high  career, 
Without  reproach  or  fear, 
Thy  fame  serene,  secured, 

Will  live  a  thousand  years  ; 
And  read  with  sighs  and  tears, 
Thy  patriotic  story. 

Weep,  Columbia,  weep, 
Yet,  in  thy  sorrow  deep, 
Think  of  Garfield's  glory. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD.  125 


MONDAY,    SEPT.    19,    11.41    P.M. 

BY    LINN    BOYD    PORTER. 

[From  The  Cambridge  Chronicle.] 
OUT  on  the  midnight  rang  a  bell, 

Like  a  terrible,  awful  wail  of  woe ! 
One  stroke  !  On  the  still  night  air  it  fell ; 

We  listened,  afraid,  for  the  second  blow  • 
Ah  !  It  struck  again  —  like  a  knell ! 
No  need  to  tell  us  our  chief  is  dead ! 

The  mighty  heart  has  ceased  to  beat ; 
The  noble  soul  to  its  God  has  sped. 

Our  grief  through  tears  is  rushing  fleet, 
As  through  deep  waters  glides  the  lead. 

Before  and  after  the  midnight  hour 
Nineteen  minutes  the  bells  are  tolled ; 

One  for  each  State  of  sovereign  power, 
And  each  for  him,  who,  lying  cold, 

Was  of  them  all  the  strengtli  and  tower. 

In  every  house  a  body  lies  ; 

On  every  heart  is  a  weight  of  grief; 
We  can  only  look  at  the  autumn  skies 

(If  haply  Heaven  may  send  relief), 
With  hot  tears  gushing  from  our  eyes. 

How  we  all  loved  this  prince  of  men ! 

And  as  we  gather  round  his  pall 
Will  come  the  gentle  whisper  then, 

"We  shall  not,  take  him  all  in  all, 
E'er  look  upon  his  like  again!" 


THE   DEAD. 

BY    CAPT.     SAM    WHITING. 

HALF-MAST  the  starry  flag's  to-day ; 

Ye  bells  sound  forth  a  funeral  peal,  — 
A  patriot's  soul  has  passed  away 

To  God  — to  wife,  to  country  leal. 

Struck  down  by  an  assassin's  hand ; 

For  three  long  months  confronting  Death, 
The  conqueror  asserts  his  claim, 

And  stops  at  last  the  feeble  breath. 


126  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 

His  labors  full  success  had  won, 

And  he  had  reached  a  station  grand ; 

As  statesman,  soldier,  patriot,  none 
Excelled  him  in  our  glorious  land. 

Oh,  orphaned  children  !  weeping  wife  ! 

A  nation's  tears  of  sorrow  fall, 
And  fervent  prayers  to  Heaven  are  rife 

For  him,  now  gone  beyond  recall ! 

A  monument  we'll  raise  to  him 
When  this  fresh  burst  of  grief  is  o'er ; 

For  time  his  memory  ne'er  shall  dim, 
But  make  it  dearer  than  before. 


THE    SAD   MINUTE-GUN. 

BY    JOHN    BANVARD. 

[From  The  New  York  Mail.] 
AH,  why  do  we  hear  that  sad  detonation, 

That  strikes  on  the  ear  with  a  sorrowful  sound, 
And  makes  the  heart  beat  with  quick  palpitation, 

As  the  echoes  are  borne  o'er  the  waters  around? 
It  makes  the  hot  tears  down  our  pallid  cheeks  run, 

While  clouds  of  deep  anguish  gloom  over  the  day, 
And  the  sound  that  we  hear  is  the  sad  minute-gun, 

While  our  loved  one  is  borne  in  sorrow  away. 
Like  chill  winter  winds  which  sweep  o'er  the  ocean, 

And  wreck  the  brave  bark  in  the  tempestuous  gale, 
It  swells  every  heart  with  inward  commotion 

As  it  sounds  through  the  land  a  sorrowful  wail. 
But  it  tells  of  a  race  most  gloriously  run, 

As  his  soul  is  borne  up  to  perpetual  day, 
And  this  is  announced  by  that  sad  minute-gun, 

As  to  the  dark  tomb  they  bear  Garfield  away. 
Sad  is  the  hour  in  death's  contemplation, 

As  draped  in  deep  mourning  each  mansion  is  still, 
Chilled  is  the  soul  at  that  sad  detonation 

Resounding  aloud  o'er  valley  and  hill ; 
'Tis  the  wail  of  the  nation  for  its  brave  stricken  son, 

In  the  grave  to  be  lain  from  the  light  of  the  day ; 
And  a  pang  to  the  heart  is  that  sad  minute-gun, 

As  to  the  dark  tomb  they  bear  Garfield  away. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIEED.  127 

AT  HIS  GRAVE,  BROTHERS- 

BY    GEORGE    G.    SMITH. 

[From  The  Springfield  Republican.] 
A    Word  from  a  Crippled  Confederate  Soldier. 

As  with  uncovered  head  and  flowing  eyes 

By  the  dear  form  of  this  dead  man  we  stand, 
We  hear  the  still  lips  speak  in  accents  loud, 

"Take  each  his  brother's  hand." 

We  hear  the  voice,  and  hearing  bend  us  down 

In  deep  contrition  that  our  bitter  hate 
Has  brought  us  so  much  dole,  and  weep  we  now 

That  God's  love  rules  us  all,  alas  !  so  late. 

But  come  we  now  from  Southland,  weeping,  come, 
And  bring  our  cypress  from  amidst  our  flowers, 

And  come  we  from  the  North  with  sprig  from  you 
Which  on  our  mountain  heights  so  proudly  towers. 

We  lay  all  down  upon  this  casket  here, 

And  lay  with  all  the  hate  of  bitter  years, 
Then  cry  for  pardon  to  the  God  of  love, 

And  clasp  hands  warmly  as  we  mix  our  tears. 

O  good,  great  ruler!  ruling  still,  though  gone, 

Thy  death  shall  give  a  life  to  lasting  love. 
Now  is  no  North,  no  South,  no  East,  no  West, 

But  brothers  all  in  peace  we  onward  move. 


AT    ELBERON. 

[From  The  Hartford  Times.] 

THEY  took  the  sufferer  to  the  shore, 

Where  he  had  long'd  to  be, 
And  placed  him  where  he  might  once  more 

Look  out  upon  the  sea. 

The  ocean-voices  on  the  beach 
Mixed  with  the  sea-bird's  cry  : 

Far  as  his  failing  eye  could  reach 
Rose  the  blue  sea  and  sky. 


128  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 

He  looked  in  silence,  long  and  deep ; 

Silent  he  turned  away. 
He  slept ;  and  from  his  fevered  sleep 

Woke  to  another  day. 

He  saw  no  more  the  billows  dance, 
Nor  heard  the  sea-bird's  call ; 

His  eager  eyes  and  yearning  glance 
Saw  but  the  chamber  wall. 

When  night  descended,  still  and  deep, 

With  star-lit  ocean  airs, 
He  saw  beyond  the  sea-bird's  sweep, 

A  wider  sea  than  theirs ! 


THE    PRESIDENT    AT    REST. 

BY    REV.    CHARLES    H.    ROWE. 

[From  The  Cambridge  Tribune.] 

THE  grave  is  rest ;  it  keeps  the  precious  dust 
Of  those  to  whom  all  care  and  work  is  past, 
Who  wait  the  resurrection  of  the  just. 

In  quiet  resting  places  they  shall  lie, 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  rock  so  high, 
Until  the  storm  of  vengeance  be  passed  by. 

The  grave  is  peace ;  no  clash  of  angry  foes 
Disturb  the  dead;  no  sorrows,  sins,  or  woes, 
Who  sleep  in  long  and  undisturbed  repose. 

In  habitation  peaceful  now  they  dwell, 

And  they  who  come  and  go,  who  buy  and  sell, 

Disturb  not  those  who  stay  and  rest  so  well. 

The  grave  is  hope ;  for  here  the  Lord  has  been, 
And  from  the  dust  of  earth  will  come  again, 
His  chosen  ones  redeemed  from  earth  and  sin. 

Safe  dwelling-place  where  none  shall  sigh  or  weep, 
Who  rest  in  Thee  in  perfect  peace  they  keep ; 
For  so  "He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 


129 


"THE   PRESIDENT  IS   DEAD.' 


BY  H.   N.   CLEMENT. 


"  THE  President  is  dead;" 

'Twas  thus  the  message  read 

On  that  eventful  night 

When  Garfield's  soul  took  flight. 

Garfield,  whose  pure,  bright  name 

So  graced  the  scroll  of  fame. 

Garficld,  whose  noble  worth 

Made  high  his  humble  birth. 

Garfield,  the  child  of  fate, 

Our  chosen  Chief  of  State, 

So  true,  and  good,  and  great  — 

Victim  of  insane  hate. 

Garfield,  whose  stalwart  form 

Withstood  the  battle's  storm 

At  Shiloh  on  that  day, 

With  Buell  far  away ; 

And  then  on  Corinth's  plain, 

Where  bullets  fell  like  rain ; 

And  Chickamauga's  field, 

Where  neither  foe  would  yield. 

Garfield,  whose  strength  and  might 

Were  always  for  the  right. 

Garfield,  our  Nation's  pride, 

WlIY  SHOULD  HE  THUS  HAVE  DIED  ? 

And  yet  that  message  dread : 

"  The  President  is  dead," 

Came  flying  through  the  night 

Like  some  dark,  troubled  sprite  — 

Some  evil  bird  of  night, 

That  fills  our  souls  with  fright. 

Alas,  too  well  we  knew 

The  sombre  tidings  true, 

For,  on  that  very  day, 

The  faithful  watchers  say, 

When  standing  near  the  sick 

They  heard  the  death-watch  tick, 

And  saw  the  spectral  dead 

Appear  beside  his  bed. 

'Twas  then  before  his  face  — 

His  wan  and  pallid  face  — 

He  held  that  fatal  glass, 

Sure  harbinger,  alas, 

That  death  had  even  now 

Reached  forth  and  touched  his  brow. 

'Tis  thus  the  spectres  place 

Death's  seal  upon  the  face. 

Those  spectres  it  is  said, 

Were  soldiers,  long  since  dead  — 

Soldiers  who  fought  and  died, 

In  battle  side  bv  side  : 


And  with  them  mingled  those 
Who  fought  and  died  as  foes,  — 
And  now  this  phantom  band 
Were  comrades  hand  in  hand. 
Foemen  they  were  no  more  ; 
Their  days  of  battle  o'er. 
Thus  came  the  mystic  throng, 
With  solemn  chant  and  song, 
With  martial  mien  and  tread, 
And  gathered  'round  his  bed,  — 
"Round  Garfield's  weary  bed. 
"  Whence  came  these  spirit  braves  ?  " 
FROM  CHICKAMAUGA'S  GRAVES  ! 
"  Why  came  they  there  that  day  ?  ' 

TO  BEAK  HIS  SOUL  AWAY  ! 

For,  eighteen  years  ago, 
When  foeman  fought  with  foe, 
These  phantom  soldiers  fell 
'Mid  fire  and  shot  and  shell  ; 
And  breathed  their  lives  away 

THAT   SELF-SAME   DAY. 


And  when  from  out  the  night  — 
That  dark,  ill-omened  night  — 
They  bore  his  soul  away 
From  its  poor  house  of  clay, 
A  comet  flamed  in  sight 
With  dull  and  sickly  light. 
That  strange,  unlucky  star  — 
That  wanderer  from  afar  — 
Seemed,  as  it  crossed  the  sky, 
Like  some  ill  prophecy. 

And  so  the  mighty  soul 
Of  Garfield  found  its  goal  ; 
While  nature's  realms  on  high 
Gave  mystic  sympathy. 
And  thus  it  ever  is 
With  master-souls  like  his, 
Who  gain,  with  fleeting  breath, 
The  crown  —  A  MAKTYK'S  DEATH. 

"  The  President  is  dead  !  " 
And  with  uncovered  head 
The  nation  bows  in  grief 
Beside  its  fallen  chief. 
In  silence  drops  a  tear 
Upon  his  mournful  bier. 
And  passes  slowly  by 
In  speechless  sympathy. 


130  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


HYMN. 

BY   HEV.    W.    G.    HASKELL. 

[From  The  Lewiston  Journal.] 
WE  drape  our  walls !     With  saddened  hearts 

We  go  about  our  daily  cares ! 
Naught  have  availed  the  skilful  arts  ! 

Naught  have  availed  our  earnest  prayers  ! 

We  mourn  the  honest  one  and  true ; 

We  mourn  the  man  of  good  intent ; 
We  mourn  him  unto  whom  was  due 

Our  noblest  love  —  OUR  PRESIDENT  ! 

We  mourn,  O  God,  our  GARFIELD  dead! 

His  heart  is  still !     His  tongue  is  dumb  ! 
Upon  our  stricken  nation  shed 

The  light  which  shines  beyond  the  tomb  ! 

Thou  reignest  still !     The  Government 
Still  lives,  to  honor  Man  and  Thee ! 

Long  may  it  live,  as  thou  hast  meant, 
Land  of  the  brave ;  home  of  the  free. 


HE  SLEEPS. 

BY    MRS.    NELLIE    FREW    MILLER. 

[From  The  Pittsburgh  Gazette.] 
HE  sleeps,  but  not  with  the  slumber  that  breaketh 

The  night  in  its  gloom,  and  its  darkness  hath  flown ; 
The  morn  in  the  light  of  its  beauty  awaketh, 
But  in  silence  and  darkness  he  still  slumbers  on. 

In  manhood's  bright  bloom  he  has  withered, 

And  grief  his  proud  spirit  had  clouded  with  gloom ; 

And  the  laurels  in  life  he  so  lately  gathered 
Have  withered  and  faded  when  freshest  their  bloom. 

But  still  shall  his  memory  fondly  be  nourished ; 

In  the  hearts  of  our  Nation  shall  his  virtues  be  cherished ; 
And  though  in  the  prime  of  his  life  he  has  perished, 

Their  remembrance  shall  be  as  a  grateful  perfume. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD.  131 

Tt  is  sad  to  see  genius  and  nobleness  dying 

'Ere  the  freshness  of  spirit  hath  Avasted  away, 
While  the  earth  seemed  around  like  a  paradise  lying, 

And  the  hope  of  the  bosom  too  bright  for  decay. 

And  thus  he  was  slain  when  his  hopes  were  the  fairest, 

While  life  only  seemed  like  a  beautiful  dream, 
Surrounded  with  all  that  was  richest  and  rarest, 

Whatever  most  bright  to  the  senses  may  seem. 

And  thus  he  has  gone  in  autumn's  bright  morning, 

When  nature  in  beauty  and  glory  depart, 
And  the  proudest  of  nations  is  bowed  down  in  sorrow, 

And  hopes  have  all  withered  and  deserted  the  heart. 

He  is  dead  !  and  the  cold  earth  is  resting  above  him  ; 
He  hears  not  the  grief  of  a  people  that  love  him ; 
The  tears  of  affection  no  longer  can  move  him, 

Or  awake  him  again  to  the  day's  joyous  beam. 
ALI.EGHANT  CITY,  PENN.,  Sept.  30, 1881. 


GARFIELD. 

BY  C.   B.  BOTSFOKD. 

THE  patriot  sleeps  in  sacred  long  repose, 
And  by  his  valiant  death  subdues  his  foes, 
Though  from  prayer's  altar  incense  hourly  rose. 
Ah !  who  shall  say  that  God  has  mocked  our  prayer 
Because  that  precious  life  he  failed  to  spare? 
What  mortal  shall  aver  prolonged  life  would 
Have  proved  to  all  mankind  the  greater  good? 
The  world  in  sympathy  and  grief  is  one ! 
Behold  the  instrument !     God's  will  be  done. 
Lives  Garfield  still!  —  in  living  hearts  enshrined, 
Admired  and  loved,  a  pattern  for  mankind. 
Unostentatious,  simple,  brave,  and  true, 
With  faith  in  God  to  suffer  and  to  do, 
Heroically  he  fought  life's  battle  through. 
His  name  is  starred,  with  martyrs  now  enrolled, 
A  radiant  gem.  with  setting  pure  of  gold  — 
To  shine  more  bright  as  history  shall  unfold ! 
Eternal,  peaceful  life  he's  won  :  and  now, 
With  those  at  one  with  God,  who  loyal  bow, 
Immortal  glories  wreath  the  victor's  brow. 
BRADFORD,  VT.,  Sept.  24,  1881. 


132 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 


AT    REST   BY   THE    SEA. 


BY  EDWIN   JJWIGIIT. 


[From  The  Springfield  Republican.] 


IN  this  sweet  autumn  time 
Of  the  murmurous  eyes, 
And  a  glad  harvest  urging 
Its  sheaves,  — 

And  the  trees  growing  gay 

With  a  leaf  here  and  there. 
And  the  world  all  at  rest 
And  so  fair,  — 

Can  it  be  he  is  dead  ? 

Do  we  hear  the  bells  right  ? 
Sad,  subdued,  like  a  cry 
In  the  night  ? 

Were  our  grief-burdened  prayers 

Every  zephyr  that  fraught, 
And  our  tear-misted  eyes, 
All  for  naught, 

Though  the  heart  of  the  nation, 

So  proud  of  its  prize, 
Had  tenderly  bid  him 

Arise  ? 
I 
Yea,  our  beacon,  that  flickered 

So  bravely  to  be, 
Has  failed  and  gone  out 
By  the  sea. 

And  the  air  has  grown  darker,  — 

We  grope  for  a  light,  — 
And  the  earth's  wet  with  tears 
Of  this  night. 

Yea,  'tis  true.    He,  so  fit 
To  have  led  us,  —  oh,  why 
Is  he  dead  ? — yet  "none  fitter 
To  die ! 

Life  that  presaged  so  much, 
To  be  stilled  in  its  prime ; 
Can  we  find  such  again 
In  all  time  ? 


Old  Ocean  !  thy  waters 

Since  first  they  tossed  free, 
Knew  never  a  nobler 
Than  he. 

He  breathed  thy  salt  breath,  — 

All  was  hope  by  the  sea,  — 
And  he  harked  to  thy  surf 
Yearningly, 

For  again  strength  to  battle 
The  wrong  and  unjust, — 
Not  for  self,  but  the  people, 
His  trust. 

His  struggle  was  passed 

Like  thine  own  ebb  and  flow,  — 
With  his  pulse  would  his  words 
Come  and  go. 

Oh,  for  strength  of  thee,  Ocean, 

To  have  borne  him  through  all 
Till  he  smiling  rose  up 
From  his  thrall ! 

When  he  looked  at  thee,  longing, 

With  far,  vacant  gaze, 

Did  a  weird  sense  number 

His  days  ? 

And  his  strong  heart  grow  still 
When  that  hour  came  to  be, 
And  his  soul  go  forth  chainless 
To  thee  ? 

Ah !  for  him  it  is  well, 
From  his  agony  free, 
Tired,  wasted,  at  rest 
By  the  sea, 

Yet  grieve  on,  restless  sea, 

To  thy  desolate  strand, 
For  the  stricken  ones  left 
In  this  land. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO   GARFIELD. 


133 


A    VOICE    FROM    NO.     1. 

THE  TRIBUTE  OF  A  TRAMP  TO  HIS  BOYHOOD'S  COMPANION,  NOW  MOURNED  BY 
AMERICA'S  MILLIONS. 

BY    R.    K.     K  I. i:\li. MAM. 


[From  The  Toronto  Evening  News,  Sept.  20.] 

This  m< 'ruing  an  old  gray-headed  drunkard,  who  for  years  has  haunted  the  cells,  sprang 
up  suddenly  as  he  overheard  the  police  talking  of  the  death  of  Garfield.  "Is  Jim  dead?" 
lio  asked.  "  Why,  I  knowed  Jim.  Him  and  me  went  to  school  together  and  used  to  fight 
and  learn  to  spell  at  the  same  school.  Poor  Jim."  The  tears  flowed  down  the  cheeks  of  the 
miserable  wretch,  who  started  in  life  with  the  same  chance  as  he  whose  death  last  night  cast 
a  gloom  over  a  whole  planet.  He  seemed  utterly  broken  down,  and,  asking  for  pencil  and 
paper,  he  penned  the  following  uncouth  tribute  :  — 


I'M  the  same  age  ez  Garfield  wuz, 

And  I  went  to  school  with  him, 
And  here  I  be  in  No.  1, 

While  millions  is  mournin'  Jim. 
I  knew  him  better'n  I  know  you ; 

He  lived  next  farm  to  us, 
But  he  was  good  as  the  wheat,  and  I 

Waz  alias  a  worthless  cuss. 

Why,  I  can  remember  Jim, 

When  he  driv  an  Erie  mule, 
And  I  would  stand  on  the  banks  and  say, 

Wall,  you're  a  thuuderin'  fool ; 
But  on  he'd  go  like  a  meadow  lark, 

And  whistlin"  a  Methodist  hymn, 
And  here  1  be  in  No.  1, 

While  millions  is  mournin'  Jim. 

I  went  down,  and  he  went  up ; 

It's  queer  when  I  come  to  think, 
But  he  would  never  go  on  a  whirl, 

And  he  never  learned  to  drink. 
1  tell  you  what,  there  must  have  been 

A  lot  of  sand  in  Jim, 
For  here  I  am  in  No.  1, 

While  millions  is  mournin'  him. 


Why,  blame  it,  I  remember  Jim 

In  rags  and  such,  when  I 
Was  dressed  like  any  dry  good  clerk 

And  reckoned  pretty  fly. 
I  had  a  chance  to  climb  the  hill, 

God  never  gave  to  Jim  ; 
Yet  here  I  am  in  No.  1, 

While  millions  is  mournin'  him. 

Why  didn't  they  go  to  work  and  shoot 

A  worthless  cuss  like  me  ? 
But  he,  poor  chap,  was  fit  to  die, 

Which  isn't  my  case,  d'ye  see  ? 
I  wish  that  I  was  dead  and  gone, 

Once  more  along  of  Jim, 
But  here  I  am  in  No.  1, 

While  millions  is  mournin'  him. 

MORAL. 

Because  you're  ragged  don't  be  afraid, 

But  allus  remember  Jim, 
Stick  to  the  right  and  go  ahead, 

And  you'll  come  to  something  like  him. 
Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip —  never  get  drunk, 

Allus  be  strong  and  true, 
And  you'll  never  be  locked  in  No.  1, 

And  millions  may  mourn  for  you. 


134 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 


HORACE— GARFIELD. 

BY    DR.    ABRAHAM   COLES. 
[From  The  Newark  Daily  Advertiser.] 

Horace  is  said  to  have  been  a  great  favorite  of  the  lamented  Garfield.  A  day  or  two  since 
a  scholar,  fresh  from  the  reading  of  the  Thirtieth  Ode  of  the  Third  Book,  wherein  the  poet,  a 
privileged  egotist,  confidently  predicts  the  perpetuity  of  his  own  fame  (in  his  case  remark- 
ably verified)  thought  it  strange  that  no  one  had  noticed  the  peculiar  applicableness  of  the 
verses  to  the  late  President.  That  they  do  admit  of  an  easy  application,  to  some  extent  at 
least,  is  indeed  quite  manifest,  of  which  the  explanation  is  to  be  found  in  the  striking  similar- 
ity of  the  lots  of  the  two  men.  Horace  speaks  of  himself  elsewhere  at-  the  child  of  pool- 
parents,  " patiperum  sanguin  parentum,"  and  here  as  having  risen  to  eminence  from  a  mean 
estate,  "  tx  humid  potens  ;  "  and  so  after  lie  had  become  the  intimale  associate  and  bosom 
friend  of  the  first  men  of  Rome,  and  in  high  favor  with  Augustus  himself,  he  took  no  pains  to 
conceal  the  fact  of  his  humble  birth.  lie  was  noted  for  his  vigorous  common-sense  and  his 
consummate  mastery  of  expression.  The  parallel  thus  far  is  exact.  But  Horace  was  a  1'airan 
and  not  a  Christian.  The  only  immortality  he  knew  was  an  earthly  immortality  to  be  de- 
rived from  his  writings.  Those  words  of  the  sixth  line  of  the  Ode,  so  powerful  in  tlieir 
brevity,  and  which  are  so  much  more  significant  in  the  mouth  of  a  Christian  believer,  would 
form  an  appropriate  inscription  for  the  tomb  yet  to  be  erected  to  Garfield  — 


"NoN  OMNIS  MORIAK!" 

CARMEN  XXX. 

EXEGI  monumentum  sere  pcrennius, 
Regalique  situ  pyramidum  altius ; 
Quod  non  imber  cdax,  non  Aquillo  im- 

potens 

Possit  diruere,  aut  innumerabilis 
Annorum  series,  etfuga  temporum. 
Non  ornnis  moriar !  multa  pars  mei 
Vitabit  Libitinam.    Usque  ego  postera 
Crescam  laude  recens,  dura  Capitolium 
Scandet  cum  tacita  virgine  pontifox. 
Dicar,  qua  violens  obstrepit  Aufidus,i 
Et  qua  pauper  aqua  Daunus  agrestium 
Regnavit  populorum,  ex  humili  potens, 
Pririceps  yEolium  carmen  ad  Ilalos 
Dcduxisse  modos.     Sume  superbiam 
Qusesitam  meritis,  et  mihi  Delpbica 
Lauro  cinge  volens  Melpomene,  coniam. 

1  Now  Ofanto  in  Apulia.  Horace  was 
born  on  its  banks.  Daunus,  a  legendary 
king,  ruled  over  the  southern  part  of  Apulia, 
as  the  Aufidus  flowed  through  the  western. 


A  NEW  TRANSLATION. 
I'VE  reared  a  monument,  alone, 
More  durable  than  brass  or  stone  ; 
Whose  cloudy  summit  is  more  hid 
Than  regal  height  of  pyramid  ; 
Which  rains  that  beat  and  winds  that  blow- 
Shall  not  have  power  to  overthrow, 
Nor  countless  years  thai  silent  smite, 
Nor  seasons  in  their  onward  flight. 
I  will  not,  when  I  yield  my  breath, 
Die  wholly  !  much  escaping  death. 
I  will  increase,  my  lame  shall  grow, 
Be  fresh  in  after! hues  as  now, 
And  while  the  silent  vestal  shall 
Climb  with  the  priest  the  Capitol. 
I —  risen  from  a  low  estate 
To  be  both  powerful  and  great, 
Where  swift  Ofanto's  waters  roar, 
And  Daunus  reigned  rude  rustics  o'er  — 
Shall  be  declared  and  honored  long 
As  one  who  first  the  stream  of  song 
Led  down  from  its  yEolic  head, 
To  run  in  an  Italian  bed. 
Put  on  that  pride,  Melpomene, 
By  merit  so  befitting  thee, 
Tome  propitious  be  alway, 
And  bind  my  hair  with  Delphic  bay  ! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  135 


GARFIELD. 

BY    PELEG    MCFARLIN. 

[From  The  Middlcborough  Gazette.] 
THE  star  has  set !     The  loved,  familiar  star, 

Which,  from  the  zenith,  with  effulgent  ray, 
But  now  shone  full,  and  poured  its  wealth  afar, 

Banished  the  darkness,  and  proclaimed  the  day ! 
Hushed  is  the  potent  voice  !     No  more  we  hail 

The  manly  port  that  faced  the  shafts  of  war  : 
Scarcely  we  dreamed  that  golden  mind  could  fail 

Wherein  was  coined  the  nation's  righteous  law. 

He  sleeps  !     And  o'er  his  consecrated  hier 
The  hearts  that  knelt  and  prayed  the  Lord  to  save, 

In  spirit  bow.     The  cypress  and  the  tear 

Attest  the  world-wide  love  that  guards  his  grave. 

From  yon  low  hovel  in  the  virgin  West 
We  saw  him  mount  the  toilsome  steeps  of  Fame, 

Till  Victory's  light  shone  full  upon  his  crest, 
And  crowned,  with  all  her  stars,  his  goodly  name. 

Though  standing  high  on  his  imperial  plane, 
He  never  blushed  at  thought  of  menial  birth, 

But,  sent  his  love  through  all  the  wards  of  pain, 
And  sought  to  lift  the  toiling  sons  of  earth. 

He  was  our  friend ;  in  truth  we  knew  him  well, 
Though  to  his  hand  we  never  pressed  our  own, 

How  much  we  loved  him  words  but  vaguely  tell, 
Or  how  his  worth  upon  our  hearts  had  grown. 

Struck  down  at  noon!     We  weep,  and  mourn  him  dead; 

Hard  by  the  scenes  that  marked  his  lowly  birth 
His  grave  is  made  ;  the  tender  prayer  is  said ; 

And  thus  his  mortal  charms  are  lost  to  earth. 

But,  while  the  world  shall  cherish  what  is  pure, 
Or  give  its  sanction  to  a  noble  thought, 

The  name  and  fame  of  Garfield  shall  endure 
In  all  the  triumphs  which  his  life  hath  wrought. 

Nay,  mourn  him  not,  nor  weep  above  his  mould ! 

The  light  and  glory  of  his  ample  fame 
Shall  gild  the  ages  with  a  finer  gold, 

And  live  while  earth  reveres  a  martyr's  name ! 
SOUTH  CAKVEB,  MASS. 


136  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

THE   SORROW   OF  THE  NATIONS. 

BY    THOMAS    M ACKELLAR. 
[From  The  Philadelphia  Times.] 

THERE'S  darkness  over  every  land, 
The  hearts  of  men  are  failing  : 
Man  takes  his  fellow  by  the  hand, 
In  nearer  brotherhood  they  stand. 
For  all  the  earth  is  wailing. 

There's  sorrow  in  the  hut  and  hall; 

The  bells  of  death  are  tolling : 
The  sun  is  hidden  by  a  pall ; 
In  whelming  billows,  over  all 

The  tide  of  grief  is  rolling. 

Loved  Britain's  queen  of  grace  and  worth 

The  proudest  thrones  of  power  — 
The  millions  high  or  low  in  birth  — 
Yea,  all  the  peoples  of  the  earth 
Are  one  in  sorrow's  hour. 

'Tis  not  that  bloody-handed  war 

A  nation's  strength  has  broken ; 

No  pestilence  has  swept  the  shore, 

Nor  famine  left  in  any  door 
Its  grim  and  deathly  token. 

A  cruel,  vile,  accursed  blow 

The  world's  great  soul  has  smitten ; 
It  laid  the  man  heroic  low, 
And  lines  of  deep  and  bitter  woe 
On  countless  hearts  are  written. 

Up  to  the  Majesty  on  high 

Unceasing  prayer  ascended; 
And  kneeling  millions  wonder  why 
A  righteous  God  should  let  him  die 

For  whom  their  prayers  contended. 

'Tis  true  a  serpent  strikes  the  heel, 

And  man  lies  down  to  perish ; 
And  swift  diseases  from  us  steal 
The  loved  and  loving,  till  we  feel 
This  life  has  naught  to  cherish. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  137 

Yet,  world  of  weeping !  question  not 

Whatever  God  ordaineth  : 
He  cannot  err,  no  matter  what 
The  seeming  strangeness  of  the  lot,  — 

The  LORD  JEHOVAH  reigneth  ! 


FUNERAL    ODE. 

BY    CHARLES    G.    FALL. 

LIFE'S  fitful  fever's  over,  and  he  sleeps ; 

Those  weary  days  and  wasting  nights  are  o'er ; 
The  nation  bows  its  stricken  head  and  weeps ; 

But  mind  and  nature  could  endure  no  more. 
Around  his  grave  shall  mourning  thousands  stand 

As  long  as  men  love  manhood  and  true  worth ; 
His  name's  a  household  word  throughout  the  land 

That  honors  high  endeavor  more  than  birth ; 
While  Learning  mourns  a  lover,  who  ne'er  knew 

A  holier  fount  than  her  1'ierian  spring ; 
Philanthropy,  a  suitor  ever  true, 

Who  brought  the  richest  gifts  that  he  could  bring ; 
While  Statesmanship  stands  mute  with  head  bowed  down : 

And  Friendship,  with  religion  hand  in  hand; 
And  Eloquence  bestows  her  golden  crown; 

The  poor,  the  weak,  and  lowly  of  the  land 
Stand  'round  his  bier,  in  sorrow  to  proclaim 

How  much  of  worth's  enshrined  in  Garfield's  name, 
While  queens  and  emperors  join  the  wide  acclaim. 

When  anxious  sleepers  heard  the  midnight  bell 

The  sad  news  toll,  they  shudd'ring  held  their  breath 
And  wildly  listened  to  the  funeral  knell 

That  said  another  had  met  Lincoln's  death. 
The  young  recalled  the  story  of  his  life, 

And  courage  took  from  his  sublime  endeavor. 
Brave  women  wept,  remembering  his  poor  wife 

And  orphan  boys  —  the  nation's  wards  forever. 
The  patriot  trembled  lest  an  equal  fate 

Might  slay  the  other,  praised  the  patient  heart 
That  while  less  worthy  men  rose  in  the  State 

His  time  abided  and  bore  well  his  part. 


138  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

His  brilliant  life  repeats  the  old,  old  story, 
There  is  no  royal  road  that  leads  to  glory, 
Through  Fame's  grand  corridors  and  marhle  halls, 
Her  fretted  vaults  and  wide,  resplendent  walls, 
On  her  Parnassian  heights  together  wander 
The  minstrel  Homer  and  Prince  Alexander, 
Patrician  Ciesar  and  love's  boy  Leander. 

The  mother  mourns  her  last-born ;  and  the  wife, 

Who  loved  the  school-boy  with  his  ruddy  face, 
And  shared  his  fortunes  through  the  bitter  strife 

Which  raised  him  from  the  cabin  to  the  place 
That  Webster  longed  for  and  that  Calhoun  lost, 

Must  drag  out  life  in  loneliness  and  grief, 
Recalling  all  the  pain  this  glory  cost, 

With  slight  remembrance  that  can  give  relief 
Except  her  martyred  husband's  love  and  name. 

Since  God  pronounced  the  primal  curse  of  toil, 
Though  wise  men  often  ask.  "  What,  what  is  fame?  " 

Philosophers  have  burnt  the  midnight  oil, 
And  poets  wandered  through  wild  Fancy's  realm, 

And  Justice  pleaded  for  some  wretched  life ; 
In  storms  the  patriot  held  his  country's  helm, 

While  some  grand  Hampden  braves  war's  fiercest  strife : 
But  what  the  learn'd  and  reverend  seer  thought  true 

This  lonely  widow's  heart  reechoes  too  : 
"  Shadows  we  are  and  shadows  we  pursue." 


OUR    PRESIDENT. 

BY  C.   B.   BOTSFOR0. 

AND  still  he  languishes,  the  nation's  head, 

With  Christian  fortitude  upon  his  bed. 

He  prostrate  lies  while  millions  raise  the  prayer 

That  God  our  President  beloved  will  spare. 

His  varying  pulse  the  nations  daily  feel, 

And  watch,  with  trembling  joy,  the  signs  of  weal 

They  pray  for  him,  for  his  heroic  wife  — 

To  home  and  country,  spare,  O  God !  his  life. 

A  sympathy,  sincere  and  deep,  world-wide, 

Resistless  as  the  ocean's  rising  tide  ! 


THE   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 


139 


A  spectacle  remarkable,  unique 
And  grand,  —  no  ancient  ruler  could  bespeak  ! 
The  striding  world  doth  stop  and  hold  his  breath, 
And  cries,  spare  him,  remorseless  tyrant,  Death  ! 
Our  God  grand  ends  from  small  beginnings  sees ; 
Eesultant  causes  bind  his  wise  decrees. 
Herein  man's  hope,  the  sphere  of  faith  and  prayer, 
The  Father's  love  excludes  the  child's  despair. 
Conspicuous  in  the  nation's  highest  seat 
Are  fortitude  and  resignation  sweet, 
All  luminous  with  Christian  faith  and  hope. 
Ah  !  who  shall  say,  with  unbelief  profane, 
All  this  is  not  within  the  laivful  scope 
Of  Providence,  and  to  the  world's  great  gain ! 
BOSTON,  Sept.  6,  1881. 


ANSWERED. 

BY    C.    A.    L. 

[From  The  Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin.] 

We  asked  life  of  Thee,  and  Thou  gavest  it  him,  even  length  of  days  forever 

and  ever." 


THROUGH  the  long  summer  days, 
Through  each  slow  hour, 

Humbly  a  nation  prays, 
"  Thine  is  the  power." 

"  This  life  we  ask  of  Thee, 

Rare  as  fine  gold  ; ' 
Ask  it  unceasingly,  — 

Wilt  Thou  withhold?  " 

Deeper  the  shadows  grow ; 

Still,  still  we  cry, 
"  Why  Thou  to  hear  so  slow,  — 
Canst  Thou  deny?" 

Lo,  the  dread  death-blow  falls, 

()  stricken — bowed, 
List  to  a  voice  which  calls 

E'en  from  the  cloud  ! 
SEPT.  20,  1881. 


"  Not  years  of  days  and  nights 
Mid  earth's  dark  strife, 

But,  on  the  sunlit  heights, 
Fulness  of  life." 

Ended  mortality. 

Care,  toil,  and  pain  ; 
This  the  reality,  — 

Losing  to  gain. 

Stand  not  in  human  pride 
Prayerless  and  dumb ; 

Say  not,  "  In  vain  we  cried ;  " 
Answer  is  come. 

Say  not,  "  Breath  vainly  spent, 
Death  and  the  clod ;  " 

Say,  "  A  bright  spirit  went 
Straight  to  its  God !  " 


1  I  will  make  a  man  more  precious  than  fine  gold;  even  a  man  than  the  golden  wedge  of 
Ophir.  —  /s.xiii.  12. 


140  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 

ELBERON. 

BY   GEORGE   FRANCIS   DAWSON. 

THE  wounded  chief  supinely  lay, 
Worn  out  with  pains,  and  ashen  gray. 
What  mocks  his  weary  eyes  each  day? 
The  deadly  calm  at  Elberon. 

O  stifling  calm  !     0  furnace  air ! 
Despite  the  kindest,  tenderest  care 
And  hopeful-seeming  round  him  there, 
A  deep  gloom  rests  on  Elberon. 

"  Blow,  healthful  breezes  !     Fresh  winds,  blow  !  ' 
The  nation  prays  —  "  Blow  high,  blow  low  ; 
Give  but  a  chance  for  hope  to  grow, 

And  lift  the  pall  from  Elberon  !  " 

Two  nations  pray;  all  England's  race, 
The  past  forgotten,  now  embrace, 
And  supplicate  that,  of  God's  grace, 

This  cup  shall  pass  from  Elberon. 

The  healthful  wind  responsive  blows, 
The  cooling  rain  in  torrent  flows, 
The  anxious  face  more  hopeful  grows, 
With  stiff  sea-breeze  at  Elberon. 

The  ocean  waves  swell  strong  and  high, 
The  sullen  mists  are  all  blown  by, 
A  bow  of  promise  spans  the  sky  — 

God's  sun  smiles  fair  on  Elberon. 

Days  come  and  go ;  the  rosy  morn 
Now  mocks  that  frame  by  anguish  torn  — 
Those  deadly  pangs  so  nobly  borne  — 
Thy  breeze  avails  not,  Elberon  ! 

Gethsemane's  blood-sweat  and  pain 
And  prayer  and  tears  were  all  in  vain ; 
We  shall  not  see  our  chief  again  — 
A  sigh  breathes  over  Elberon. 

They  tell  us  "  Hope  is  not  yet  dead"  — 
But  while  they  speak  the  shadows  dread 
Of  Azrael's  wings  are  widely  spread 
Above  the  cot  at  Elberon  ! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  141 

O  worn-out  hero!  tired  chief! 
Death  gently  comes  and  gives  relief, 
And  all  the  world  is  filled  with  grief — 
Toll,  midnight  bells  of  Elberon  ! 

Poor,  aged  mother  —  wailing  sore 
Tn  far  Ohio,  him  she  bore  — 
God's  peace  to  thee !     'Twill  soon  be  o'er  — 
"God's  will"  is  "  done  "  at  Elberon. 

And  thou,  O  stricken  wife,  art  seen 
Upheld  as  wife  hath  rarely  been ! 
Sweet  words  are  those  from  England's  Queen  : 
"  God  comfort  you,"  at  Elberon. 

God  comfort  all !     The  pulseless  clay 
A  weeping  people  bears  away  — 
To  wait  the  Resurrection  Day  — 

Far,  far  away  from  Elberon. 

The  soul  hath  left  the  lifeless  clod, 
Upborne  by  angels  —  Ichabod  !  — 
From  mortal  arms  to  arms  of  God, 
O'er  wrinkled  sea  at  Elberon. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


[From  The  London  Graphic.] 
SOULS  pure  and  strong  from  God  still  wing  their  flight 

And  dwell  among  us  for  a  little  space ; 

Whoso  loves  truth  may  in  their  beauty  trace 
The'semblance  of  the  everlasting  light ; 
Too  soon  the  beam  of  truth  is  quenched  in  night, 

The  nations  in  their  shame  their  gaze  abase, 

Mourning  that  men  should  scorn  the  Heaven-sent  grace, 
And  set  all  good  below  their  narrow  spite. 
The  great  may  perish,  but  their  name  endures, 

A  mountain  beacon ;  by  whose  flame  we  find 

The  path  that  leads  us  high  above  the  plain. 
So  Garfield  to  Columbia's  sons  assures 

A  high  ensample  of  the  equal  mind, 

As  modest  in  success,  as  brave  in  pain. 


142  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

SORROW.  —  AN  ACROSTIC. 

BY    JOHN    SAVARY. 

[From  The  Washington  Gazette.] 

LEAVE  her  great  grief  to  speak  in  speechless  stone ! 
Unless  the  painter,  with  an  eye  to  form, 
Can  put  the  rainbow  under  feet  in  storm 
Rolling  far  off,  and  from  the  clouds  o'erblown, 
Eminent  Sorrow  to  the  stars  alone 
Tending,  for  infinite  rest.     The  mournful  grace 
Ingraved  in  still  thoughts  on  her  starlit  face, 
Around  her  clasps  the  solemn  midnight  zone. 

Remembrance  shadows  her,  and  evermore 
Under  the  drooping  lids  a  trace  of  tears 
Drawn  in  dim  circle  round  the  eye  appears 
Of  the  wan  watcher  in  the  Mount,  as  o'er- 
Looking  the  earth  to  the  far-shining  shore. 
Pending  the  frail  thread  of  her  spun-out  years, 
Her  heart  dreads  not  of  Destiny  the  shears. 

Gone  is  her  sun  and  moon  that  shone  before. 

Afar  the  shining  heights  grow  dark  for  life 

Remembered  only  as  a  gracious  boon. 

Forever  garnered  from  the  fields  of  strife 

Into  God's  garner,  rest  his  works  at  noon. 

Endure  thy  lot  a  little  longer.     Soon, 

Lady  of  sorrow  !  in  a  better  clime 

Death  shall  ring  out  thy  heavenly  marriage  chime. 


OUR  FALLEN  CHIEF. 

( 

BY    CLARA    O.    CASSELL. 

[From  The  Chicago  Tribune.] 
SLEEP,  sweetly  sleep  !  thou  great  and  just ! 
Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust! 
Nations  weep  thy  loss  to  feel, 
Loved  ones  'round  thy  presence  kneel, 
All,  midst  grief  too  great  to  tell, 
Mourn  thy  loss — beloved  so  well  — 
Farewell,  O  great  Chief,   farewell ! 
On  earth  no  more  with  us  thou'lt  dwell. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD.  143 

Thou'rt  gone  forever  from  our  sight, 
Whose  will  was  ever  to  do  right : 
Revered  by  all,  our  grief  is  great ; 
Thy  loss  is  felt  in  every  State  ; 
Loving  ones  o'er  thee  will  weep, 
Who  art  not  dead,  but  just  asleep ; 
We'll  miss  thee  from  thy  earthly  home, 
The  angels  claimed  thee  for  their  own. 
DEERTON,  ILL. 


WHAT   CAN   WE   DO   BUT   WEEP? 

BY    GEORGE    C.    WOOLLARD. 

[From  The  Cincinnati  Gazette.] 

WHY  thus  are  nations  thrilled?     Why  swimming  eyes 
And  vengeful  hearts  proclaiming  grief  and  scorn? 

Columbia  bore  a  brood  of  ingrate  sons, 
That  made  of  her  a  second  Lear;  that  made 
Her  truth  a  lie,  her  liberty  a  tyranny ; 
And  her  glorious,  well-appointed  home, 
A  haunt  of  bribed  and  perjured  Infamy. 

At  length  she  bore  a  goodly  seeming  child, 
A  second  Moses.     Him  she  nursed  and  tended ; 
And  in  due  course  brought-up  to  Man's  estate  : 
Not  man  merely  in  form,  but  really  man. 

On  Garfield's  purposed  arm  Columbia  leaned ; 
And,  while  her  ingrate  sons,  among  themselves, 
For  bitter  strife  could  not  divide  their  spoils, 
She  bade  him  gird  himself  to  loose  her  chains. 
Oh,  what  her  joy  !  Oh,  how  her  great  heart  beat, 
When  he  had  manliness  to  stand  his  mother  by  ! 

"  Now  let  my  soul  be  comforted !     My  land 
Be  purified ;  and  let  sweet  Peace  and  Rest 
Bless  all  my  borders."     Thus  she  said ;  and  thus 
Would  it  have  fared,  but  that  the  wolfish  horde 
Found  means  to  glut  their  vengeance. 
The  stealthy  jackal,  that  hungers  for  the  scraps 
That  lordlier  tigers  leave,  struck  deep  his  fangs 
Into  Columbia's  savior.     He  fell;  and  then 
Fell  all  true  men  in  sympathy. 
What  can  we  do  but  weep? 


144  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

BY  GARLAND  TURELL. 

[From  The  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer.] 
ON  yonder  shore  the  willows  sigh, 

The  winds  blow  soft,  the  birds  sing  low, 
And  o'er  his  grave  the  swallows  fly, 
And  kiss  the  turf  where  lilies  grow 
And  blossoms  blow. 

On  yonder  shore  the  moonlight  falls, 
And  stars  look  down  with  tender  eyes  ; 

From  leafy  groves  the  cuckoo  calls  — 
In  softer  tones  her  mate  replies 
In  glad  surprise. 

On  yonder  shore  a  hero  sleeps, 

Where  Autumn  flings  her  golden  sheaves  ; 
And  Nature  o'er  his  slumber  weeps 

With  dew-drops  on  the  dying  leaves, 
And  ever  grieves. 

Blow,  waiting  winds !     Blow  high,  blow  low, 
And  tell  the  waves  what  ye  deplore  ; 

And  sing,  ye  waters,  as  ye  flow, 

"  He  sleeps,  he  sleeps  on  yonder  shore 
Forevermore." 


STRANGULATUS   PRO   REPUBLICA. 

[From  The  Christ  Church  Register.] 
THE  golden  honors  of  a  nation's  day 
Do  bud,  and  bloom,  and  fade,  and  pass  away. 
Some  leave  a  record  on  the  scroll  of  Time ; 
Some  are  engrossed  upon  the  throne  sublime. 
Great  deeds  of  mighty  men  are  soon  forgot, 
Or  paraphrased  by  hands  that  knew  them  not. 
Shall  we,  then,  give  posterity  the  claim 
To  write  an  eulogy  for  our  great  name? 
Shall  generations  yet  unborn  gainsay 
The  grandeur  of  the  name  we  mourn  to-day? 
We  pray  it  be  not  so ;  but  every  pen, 
How  great  its  weakness  or  how  deartli  its  ken, 
Unite  to  tell  of  him  who  grandly  stood 
The  nation's  martyr  for  tlie  nation's  good. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    OAR  FIELD.  145 


DECKED   FOR   THE   GRAVE. 

BY    T.    G.    LA  MOILLE. 

[From  The  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer.] 
WE  deck  our  hero  for  the  tornb, 

And  heap  his  bier  with  flowers, 
While  his  grand  spirit  through  the  gloom 

Finds  amaranthine  bowers. 

The  favored  State  that  gave  him  birth 

Receives  her  martyfed  son  ; 
Carve  deep  the  stone  that  speaks  his  worth, 

And  tells  the  prize  Death  won. 

Let  forge-flames  die  !     Let  mill-wheels  pause  ! 

Let  Traffic  stay  her  hand  ! 
Make  bare  your  brow  I  twine  sable  gauze ! 

Pray  ye  through  all  the  land ! 

Pray  for  his  stricken  family ! 

Lament  our  nation's  woe  ! 
We  have  the  whole  world's  sympathy : 

A  true  man  lieth  low. 

We  deck  our  Garfield  for  the  grave, 

And  hide  his  pall  with  flowers ; 
His  life  —  and  love  worked  hard  to  save  — 

Leaves  "  influence  sweet"  for  ours. 


OUR  MARTYRED   PRESIDENT. 

BY   JOHN   M.    IVES. 
[From  The  Lockport  Daily  Uniou.] 
DEAD,  by  the  sounding  sea ! 

Dead,  with  his  laurels  green  ! 
The  midnight  bell,  with  solemn  knell, 

Sobs  out  —  No  dream !  —  No  dream  ! 
A  nation's  pride  in  dust  low  lies  — 
Oh,  solemn,  sacred  sacrifice  ! 

No  more  in  pain,  but  well ; 

Healed,  made  whole  and  clean ; 
A  noble  soul,  on  martyr  roll, 

Welcomed  by  hands  unseen 
To  kingdoms  fadeless,  peaceful,  blest ; 
To  Lincoln's  side,  to  Heaven's  sweet  rest. 


146  THE  POETS'    TR'IBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

For  her  who  sits  in  grief 

A  nation's  prayers  uprise  ; 
So  brave  and  good,  alone  she  stood 

And  battled  death  with  steadfast  eyes. 
O  God,  give  strength  in  this  dark  hour, 
Come  to  that  soul  with  precious  power ! 

Earth's  fleeting  fame,  how  poor ; 
Eternal  gain,  how  sure ! 
In  place  of  Joy,  sad  Sorrow  walked ; 
With  trusting  Hope  the  Spectre  stalked ; 
And  grief,  and  gloom,  and  prayers  and  tears, 
Alternate  with  a  people's  fears, 
Arose  and  fell  through  summer  days, 
Until,  mid  sad  September's  haze, 
The  message  comes,  and  we  are  dumb. 
LOCKPORT,  N.Y.,  Sept.  20, 1881. 


"GOD  BLESS  THEM." 

BY    MRS.    E.    T.    HOUSH. 
[From  The  Louisville  Commercial.] 
THE  church  bell  was  calling  the  hour  of  prayer, 
And  its  notes  peeled  through  the  casement,  where 
Our  stricken  President  lay. 

"  They  are  praying  for  me?  "  as  he  turned  his  head, 
"All  the  people  are  praying  for  you."  —  "  God  bless  them!"  he  said. 

In  every  home,  by  the  sea  or  the  land, 

Had  gone  up  the  cry  from  the  waiting  band,  — 

"  God  save  the  President!  "     But  from  him  no  sigh, 

Only  "  God  bless  them!"  —  "  They'll  not  let  the  old  soldier  die." 

Were  the  prayers  that  rose  from  the  myriad  throng, 
But  as  incense  to  lift  the  soul  so  strong 
Out  from  the  clay  —  away  from  the  strife  — 
Upward  to  God,  and  Heaven,  and  Life  — 

That  deeper  than  night  lies  a  gloom  o'er  the  earth? 
For  the  bravest  and  truest  that  ever  had  birth, 
Comes  to  its  bosom  for  shelter  and  rest. 
Gently  hold  him,  oh,  mother,  to  thy  loving  breast ! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD.  147 

Fall  the  sod  lightly,  tenderly !     We  bring  to  thee, 
A  treasure  most  cherished !    Ah,  never  to  be 
Prayed  for  again  !     All  the  watching  is  o'er ! 
Safe  from  all  pain,  from  all  harm,  evermore! 

The  prayers  for  him  ended :  but  one  prayer  still  breathes  on, 
Though  the  lips  are  as  dust,  and  their  spirit  is  gone, 
"fis  the  prayer  that  he  whispered.  —  "  God  bless  them !  "  he  said, 
"  God  bless  them !"  God's  blessing  can  never  be  dead. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

BY    W.    J.    H.    HOGAN. 

[From  The  Chicago  Tribune.] 

THIS  was  a  MAN,  whose  like  we  seldom  view,  — 
A  Christian  knight,  brave,  mild,  and  grandly  true. 
Under  the  banner  of  the  Cross  he  fought, 
And  shamed  it  not  by  word  or  acted  thought. 
He  learned  long  since  his  passions  to  subdue, 
And,  humbly  kneeling,  for  more  light  to  sue, 
And  light  was  given  to  illume  the  mind, 
Light,  whose  bright  beams  into  the  tomb  hath  shined, 
Since  He  who  is  the  Light  was  there  enshrined. 
He  learned  to  die,  and  as  his  Master  rose, 
With  Him  he  triumphs  o'er  the  last  of  foes. 
To  Judah's  Lion,  ever  gracious  Lord, 
He  now  hath  gone,  to  meet  his  just  reward. 
Mourn  we  his  loss,  our  honored,  gallant  chief, 
Not  only  in  habiliments  of  grief, 
With  broken  hearts  that  feel  unuttered  woe, 
We  know  a  sorrow  that  surpasseth  show,  — 
Strong  men  and  tender  women  sadly  weep, 
And  little  children  from  their  sports  do  creep, 
And  add  their  tears,  limpid  as  angels  shed, 
Drops  worthy  of  him,  the  illustrious  dead. 
Pure  was  his  life  and  honorably  spent, 
He  wisely  used  the  talent  he  was  lent ; 
He  need  not  strive  the  Master's  eye  to  shun, 
For  He  shall  greet  him  with  the  words,  Well  done  ! 
•Plant  at  his  head  the  green  acacia  tree, 
As  fadeless  as  his  memory  shall  be  : 
Bright  emblem  of  the  life  succeeding  this, 
Where  souls  immortal  dwell  irr  endless  bliss. 
ELHUKST,  ILL.,  Sept.  19,  1881. 


148  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 


HIS  VICTORY 

BY    ANNIE    D.    DARLING. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.] 
THOUGH  on  the  waiting  hush  of  midnight  lay 

The  burden  that  the  solemn  bells  have  tolled  — 
Though  hearts  throbbed  quick,  as  griefs  imperious  sway 

Crushed  fluttering  hopes,  and  onward  swifter  rolled  — 
Though  dark  despair  lay  ambushed  in  that  night, 

When  Death's  white  silence  fell  on  conflict  sore  — 
E'en  though  the  taper  trembling  Faith  upholds 

With  flick'ring  ray  makes  deeper  sorrow's  gloom, 
Shall  we  not  read  aright,  and  love  the  more. 

Both  God  and  man,  and  in  our  martyr's  doom 
See  a  great  purpose  —  an  example  bright 

For  coming  ages?     But  for  pain's  sharp  fire 
That  purified  his  gold,  the  nation's  cry 

For  help,  that  all  our  pleading  prayer  enfolds, 
We  should  have  failed  to  reach  the  best  desire  — 

And  so  our  share  in  this,  God's  victory. 


REST. 

BY    MRS.    VIRGINIA    DIMITRY    RUTH. 

[From  The  New  Orleans  Democrat.] 
SPEAK  low  !  The  out-spent  heart  is  pulseless  now  ! 

No  room  save  for  vast  pity's  might ; 
Death's  signet  lies  upon  the  strong,  white  brow  ; 

The  hero  chief  rests  — conquered  in  the  fight. 

Slain,  in  the  hour  of  his  highest  trust, 

His  work  undone  —  untold  forever  more; 
While  Freedom  weeps  above  his  coffined  dust, 

Two  nations  mourn  his  end  from  shore  to  shore. 
O  thou,  who  most  need'st  bear  this  searching  blow, 

Lift  up  thy  soul  to  the  eternal  shrine ; 
Fate  comes  not,  to  thy  home,  a  bitter  foe ; 

God  will  not  fail  to  watch  o'er  thee  and  thine. 
And  he,  who  passes  from  the  gaze  of  all, 

Leaves  of  his  life  a  record  grand  and  fair  ! 
Borne  to  his  rest  with  ^rum-beat  and  with  pall, 

His  memory  shall  be  a  people's  care. 


THE   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    OARFIELD.  149 

IN  MEMORIAM. 

BY    C.   B.    SCHLIE. 

[From  The  Cincinnati  Enquirer.] 

CEASE,  stricken  country,  in  thy  daily  toil, 

And  let  the  merchant's  busy  hum  be  hushed ; 
Rest  on  your  ploughs,  ye  servants  of  the  soil, 

E'er  with  the  brown  of  honest  labor  flushed. 

For  Death  —  grim  lover  of  a  shining  mark  — 

Has  lowered  his  pinions  o'er  a  nation's  head ; 
Like  thief  at  night  he  came,  and  in  the  dark 

Went  forth  the  dreaded  whisper  :     "  He  is  dead ! ' 

Ah !  toll  the  bells,  and  let  their  muffled  voice 
Chime  with  the  mournful  throbbing  of  our  hearts  ! 

Deep  runs  our  grief;  lost  is  a  nation's  choice  ; 
And  through  our  breast  a  nameless  sorrow  starts. 

Ah,  mourn  thy  loss,  Columbia !     He  was  great 

In  all  those  virtues  that  in  man  abide ; 
Adored  at  home,  high  honored  in  his  State  — 

The  nation's  ruler,  but  the  people's  pride ! 

Peace  to  thy  ashes,  suffering  mnrtyr,  peace  ! 

Thy  race  of  troubles,  joys,  and  griefs  is  run ; 
Rest  on  thy  laurels,  rest,  dear  soul,  at  ease, 

Rest  from  thy  labors  —  well  and  nobly  done. 

Sleep  the  long  sleep  that  waits  the  brighter  day, 
And  gives  surcease  from  sorrow,  grief,  and  woes  ' 

Sleep  with  the  just,  where  Mercy  holds  her  sway, 
And  Virtue  to  her  crown  eternal  goes. 

Sad  are  our  hearts;  ah,  soon  thy  well-known  form 

Will  rest  in  mother  earth  —  thy  dust  to  dust ; 
Thy  voice  no  more  will  guide  us  in  the  storm, 

Nor  cheer  the  stricken  people  —  late  thy  trust ! 

But  in  our  hearts  immortal  thou  shalt  be, 

And  fresh  and  green  thy  memory  with  us  live : 
Thine  all  the  homage  of  a  nation  be, 

Thine  all  the  love  a  people  loved  can  give ! 


150  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

A   TIDE. 

BY    KATHERINE    HANSON    AUSTIN. 

[From  The  Providence  Journal.] 

"  The  earth  shall  be  full  of  the  knowledge  of  the  Lord  as  the  waters  cover  the  sea. 
Isaiah,  xi.  9. 

FROM  heart  to  heart  a  solemn  surge 

Has  blessed  a  hemisphere. 
Its  waves  are  throbbing  with  a  dirge 

The  farthest  isles  can  hear. 
Oh,  prophet-heart  of  long  ago 

That  yearned  for  tides  of  good, 
To-day,  we,  too,  prophetic  know 

What  meancth  brotherhood. 
Can  e'er  this  tender  flood  subside 

And  leave  a  desert  plain? 
Not  such  its  ebb.     Still  higher  tide 

Foresee  our  love  and  pain. 


THE   LAST   VICTORY. 

BY    ESTHER    BERNON    CARPENTER. 

[From  The  Providence  Journal.) 
0  THOU,  the  loved,  lamented  dead ! 
Not  vainly  on  thy  sacred  head 
The  chrism-drops  of  woe  were  shed  ! 
By  the  dear  life-blood's  ruddy  rain ; 
By  the  dread  ministry  of  pain ; 
By  the  long  chafing  of  the  chain ; 
By  the  keen  pang  of  hope  denied ; 
By  love  and  longing  crucified ; 
By  the  last  e*bbing  of  life's  tide ;  — 
We  praise  Thee,  Lord  of  life  and  death, 
God  of  our  prayers,  God  of  our  faith, 
That  Thou  hast  lent  frail  mortal  breath, 
A  heart  so  true,  a  soul  so  tried, 
Care,  strife,  and  anguisli  vainly  vied 
To  quell  the  spirit's  hero-pride. 
Life's  rugged  labors  bravely  learned ; 
Life's  dearer  trusts  right  nobly  earned ; 
Life's  triumphs  on  his  'scutcheon  burned. 
Oh  !  what  for  him  hadst  Thou  in  store? 
The  soldier's,  statesman's  meed  he  bore ; 
Lacked  he  yet  aught  of  honor's  lore? 


THE   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    OA^FIELD.  151 

Lo  !  he  the  strife  had  yet  to  see 
With  pain,  with  woe,  with  agony;    * 
Came  he  not  forth  in  victory? 

Shall  not,  O  God,  this  martyr-breath, 
E'en  as  Thy  sure  word  witnesseth, 
Deny  the  victory  to  Death? 

Guide  Thou  our  hearts  ;  oh,  set  us  free 
From  doubts  and  fears ;  give  us  to  see 
This  last,  sublimest  victory  ! 

WAKEriELD,   R.I. 


VANITY   OF   LIFE. 
A  PARAPHRASE. 

BY    JOHN    SAVARY. 

[From  The  Washington  Gazette.  | 

WHATSOEVER  thy  hand  finds  to  do, 

That  do  with  thy  might ; 
For  there  is  no  work  and  no  wisdom 

In  the  grave,  and  no  light. 
With  the  living,  we  know,  there  is  hope : 

But  he  who  doth  fare 
To  the  dim  under-world  is  forgotten,  — 

No  knowledge  is  there. 

Not  the  race  to  the  swift,  the  battle 

Is  not  to  the  strong; 
Not  bread  to  the  wise,  to  the  knowing 

Do  riches  belong. 
How  the  best  of  this  world  and  the  basest 

Are  yoked  for  all  time, 
In  a  marriage  of  fate,  or  of  chance, 

By  folly  of  crime  ! 

We  live  in  a  world  strangely  solemn 

Of  spirit  and  sense ; 
No  man  knows  the  time  of  his  going, 

Nor  whither,  nor  whence. 
As  I  looked  on  the  wasted  remains 

Of  the  friend  of  my  youth, 
I  mused  of  him  somewhere  unchanged  as 

Our  Garfield,  in  truth  ! 


152  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD. 

Most  truly  to  him  was  the  light  sweet, 

And  pleasant  the  sun  ; 
He  rejoiced  in  the  wife  of  his  youth, 

In  honors  hard  won. 
He  stood  in  the  noontide  of  glory, 

As  raised  to  a  throne  ; 
Then  dropt  like  a  star  from  the  zenith, 

At  midnight,  alone. 

Remember,  my  son,  thy  Creator, 

In  the  days  of  thy  youth ; 
Ere  the  evil  days,  and  the  years 

Draw  nigh  thee,  in  truth. 
Ere  the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars, 

In  time  become  dark ; 
As  the  lamp  of  the  spirit  in  man 

Grows  dimmer,  a  spark. 

In  the  day  when  the  windows  are  darkened 

To  those  vho  look  out; 
When  the  beam  of  long  life  to  the  poiser 

Hangs  trembling  in  doubt : 
When  the  locust  at  length  is  a  burden, 

And  terrors  ally ; 
For  as  the  tree  falls,  be<idmonished, 

Henceforth  it  must  lie. 

When  he  looks  to  behold  the  return 

Of  clouds  after  rain  ; 
When  the  lining  of  silver  is  sable, 

And  pleasure  is  pain  ; 
When  the  daughter  of  song  and  of  music 

By  eld  are  brought  low  : 
Man  goes  to  his  long  home,  and  the  mourners 

About  the  streets  go. 

Or  the  silver  cord  loose,  or  the  golden 

Bowl  break  where  it  fell ; 
Or  the  pitcher  be  broke  at  the  fountain, 

Or  wheel  at  the  well ; 
Shall  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was, 

The  body  to  dust; 
And  the  spirit  return  unto  God, 

The  abode  of  the  just. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD. 


153 


AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Elberon,  N.J.,  Sept.  13  and  Sept.  20,  1(181. 

BY   REV.   JOSEPH  A.   ELY. 


BESIDE  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 
He  lay,  on  whom  the  people's  heart  was  set 

As  never  yet 

The  hearts  of  millions  in  the  mystery 
Of  love  and  longing  to  one  heart  were  bound; 

Encompassing  him  'round 
With  ceaseless  vigil,  till  each  whispered  word 

The  wide  world  heard, 
And  every  weary  groan 

Was    echoed    by    a    nation's    sympathizing 
moan. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 
He  lay,  in  that  unequal  fight  with  death; 

And  every  breath 
That  blew  across  his  couch  we  prayed  might 

be 
A  minister  of  strength  to  him  again 

And  victory  over  pain, 
As  in  his  heart  he  felt  anew  the  joy 

That  as  a  boy 

Was  his,  when  on  his  dreams 
The  far-off  ocean  rose  to  tempt  him  with  its 
gleams. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 
He  lay,  and  heard  the  restless  billows  roar 

Along  the  shore; 

And  far  across  the  waves,  where  silently 
The  distant  waters  stretched,  his  eager  eye 

Sought  the  encircling  sky, 
Or  lingered  where  with   snowy  wings   out- 
spread 

The  swift  ships  sped, 
Xor  knew  whose  longing  gaze 
Was  following  them,  unseen,  upon  their  de- 
vious ways. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 

He  lay,  but  uttered  not  what  thoughts  awoke, 

What  voices  spoke, 

Through  those  days  shadowed  by  eternity, 
Within  his  struggling  heart.     Yet  as  a  star 

In  silence  from  afar 
Sheds  o'er  the  heaving  deep  that  lies  below 

Its  tranquil  glow. 
So  on  his  troubled  breast 
The  light  of  some  far  realm  of  quiet  seemed 
to  rest. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 

He  lay,  nor  knew  that  all  the   world   was 

bright 

With  that  soft  light 
Of  love  and  courage,  strength  and  purity, 


That  from  his  chamber  with  such  radiance 

streams 

To  cast  its  cheering  beams 
O'er  every  sufferer's  path  and  show  the  way- 
Through  night  to  day, 
And  'mid  the  wrecks  of  earth 
Disclose  the  budding    honors  of   immortal 
birth. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 
He  lay,  and  felt  anew  each  earthly  bond 

And  every  fond 

Affection  of  his  home  more  tenderly 
Because  so  soon  to  part.    And  all  his  hope 

Grew  wider  in  its  scope 
At  that  fell  touch  which  turned  it  all  to  dust, 

And  yet  in  trust 
He  yielded  to  his  doom 

And  with  unfaltering  step  went  downward 
to  the  tomb. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 

He  lay,  eyes  closed  and  hand  upon  the  breast, 

At  last  at  rest. 

Without,  the  changeless  ocean  ceaselessly 
Sobbed  on  the  beach,  but  not  for  him  its  wail ; 

His  honors  cannot  fail ; 
The  stars  of  earthly  fame  that  burn  for  him 

Can  ne'er  grow  dim  : 
For  us  the  mournful  cry 

Who  seek  in  vain  below  that  which  has  passed 
on  high. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 
He  lies  no  more;  to-day  with  loving  hand, 

Far  from  the  strand, 
Amid  a  nation's  grief  his  form  will  be 
Laid  in  its  grave;  but  his  heroic  soul, 

So  fashioned  to  control, 
Enthroned  above  among  the  eternal  spheres, 

Through  distant  years, 
Ruling  with  gentle  sway, 
Shall  guide  the  land  he  'loved  upon  its  onward 
way. 

Beside  the  window  looking  o'er  the  sea 

He  still  shall  lie,  wearing  his  sorrow's  crown, 

And  gazing  down, 
As  from  pure  realms  of  light,  with  vision 

free, 
Across  the  troubled  waves  of  human  life 

And  all  its  bitter  strife. 
•The  noise  of  fad  ion  at  his  feet  shall  cease, 

Awed  into  peace, 
And  purified  by  pain 

The  stricken  nation  from  his  death  new  life 
shall  gain. 


154  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 


HEALING   SYMPATHY. 

BY  JOHN  SAVARY. 

How  hard,  in  health,  to  be  struck  down  and  lie 
All  weary  days  and  nights  on  bed  of  pain ! 
Harder  for  him  of  the  large,  active  brain, 
And  social  nature ;  yet,  with  quiet  eye 
Turned  on  the  resting  ocean  and  the  sky 
He  hath  medicinal  aid,  and  not  in  vain, 
From  singing  leaves  and  plash  of  silver  rain, 
Soothed  by  low  winds  and  waters'  lullaby. 

Around  his  bed  good  angels  watch  and  wait. 
And  many  a  king  and  many  a  potentate 
Sends  kindly  message  from  beyond  the  sea. 
And  his  own  people  will  not  let  him  be 
Out  of  their  arms  of  love,  O  God !  how  deep 
The  breathless  vigil  which  the  land  doth  keep ! 


ASSASSINATED. 

BY  JOHN  SAVARY. 

WAS  it  for  this,  dear  friend,  that  you  had  won 
By  toilsome  steps  your  way  to  place  and  power? 
For  this  you  climbed  above  the  clouds  that  lower 

With  lurid  tempest  in  the  rising  sun 

Of  lawful  sway,  and  wide  dominion? 

And  when  you  stood  at  the  consummate  flower 
Of  all  your  greatness,  in  an  evil  hour, 

The  shot  was  fired,  the  awful  deed  was  done ! 

Esteem  thou  hadst  before,  O  steadfast  soul, 
But  now  thou  hast  thy  people's  love  in  fee. 

Cold  love  is  kindled  to  a  burning  coal 
In  living  heat  of  loyalty  to  thee. 

And  if  the  people's  prayer  to  God  on  high 

Can  aught  avail,  dear  friend,  YOU  SHALL  NOT  DIE  ! 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  155 

GOOD   OUT   OF   EVIL. 

BY    JOHN    SAVARY. 

How  many  and  how  great  concerns  of  State 

Lie  at  the  mercy  of  the  meanest  things ! 

This  man  the  peer  of  presidents  and  kings, 
Nay,  first  among  them,  passed  through  danger's  gate 
In  war  unscathed,  and  perils  out  of  date, 

To  meet  a  fool  whose  pistol-shot  yet  rings 

Around  the  world,  and  at  mere  greatness  flings 
The  cruel  sneer  of  destiny  or  fate ! 
Yet  hath  he  made  the  fool  fanatic  foil 

To  valor,  patience,  nobleness,  and  wit ! 

Nor  had  the  world  known  but  because  of  it 
What  virtues  grow  in  suffering's  sacred  soil. 

That  shot  made  stream  with  sacred  pity's  well, 

The  ground  of  unity  in  which  we  dwell. 


AFTER   THE  TRAGEDY    OF  JULY   SECOND. 

BY    JOHN    SAVARY. 

EXCITEMENT?  no;  but  absolute  surprise  : 
Astonishment  that  struck  through  all  a  hush 

Of  grim  expectancy  whose  shadow  lies 
On  men  like  standing  wood  before  the  rush 

Of  roaring  wind  with  rain  and  darkness,  all 
Suddenly  upon  the  people  a  great  calm 

Of  perfect  horror  settled  like  a  pall. 

Such  calms  precede  a  tempest,  and  forbode 

The  lightning's  flash  and  the  deep  thunder's  roll. 
And  had  there  been  a  demagogue  to  goad 

The  waiting  populace,  the  dark  rising  soul 
Of  ignorant  "  thunderheads  "  heaved  up  for  warm 

Vengeance  at  bloody  work  —  he  might  have  shook 
From  turret  to  foundation  stone  the  form 

Of  stable  government;  —  but  there  was  no  storm. 


150  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 


UNDER  THE    DOME. 

BY  JOHN  SAVARY. 

I  SAW  the  last  scene  of  his  triumph.  Well, 
By  all  his  greatness  gone  in  that  eclipse, 
By  doom  of  darkness  on  his  brow  and  lips  : 

He  lay,  like  Caesar,  at  the  Capitol,  — 

The  fallen  Caasar  of  our  Westei-n  Rome 
Under  the  dome. 

Slain  by  no  Brutus,  but  a  fiendish  fool. 

What  toys  are  men,  mere  playthings  of  their  fate ! 

How  little  seems  all  that  which  we  call  great! 
He  gathers  here  his  pupils  in  that  school 
Of  his  hushed  eloquence,  a  claspt  mighty  tome 
Under  the  dome. 

No  more  shall  wander  round  his  kindly  glance, 
Nor  evermore  his  voice  in  strong  debate 
Shall  guide  and  guard  the  councils  of  the  State. 

No  more  his  forehead,  in  its  broad  expanse, 

Shall  lift  itself  in  that  sky-lighted  home 
Under  the  dome. 

All  day  and  night  the  great  procession  pours 
Through  the  wide-leaved  and  open  Capitol  gate, 
To  the  rotunda,  where  he  lies  in  state. 
On  yet  the  billowy  heads  through  corridors 
Wander  and  waver,  like  the  ocean's  foam, 
Under  the  dome. 

But,  hush  !  who  comes  with  footsteps  far  away 
Sounding  in  silence  like  a  hollow  knell, 
With  that  bowed  look  of  grief  unutterable, 

And  wrapt  in  widow's  weed,  a  palmer  gray, 

Standing  at  last  by  her  dead  lord  alone, 
Under  the  dome. 

Draw  close  the  veil  around  that  last  sad  scene. 

Her  sun  gone  down,  no  morn  henceforth  shall  rise, 
Not  heavy,  dark  with  tears  in  those  dim  eyes 
That  hardly  see  the  gift  of  England's  Queen, 
And  that  pale,  patient  dove  o'erbrooding  loam 
Under  the  dome. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD.  157 

FIFTY   MILLION   HEARTS    HAVE   BLED   TO-NIGHT. 

BY    W.    E.    H. 

[From  The  College  Student.] 

OH,  tell  us  not  our  hero's  dead ! 

That  death  the  nation's  bloom  has  blighted  ! 
The  trembling  anguish,  pain  unsaid, 

Hang  silent  on  the  doubting  breath  : 
While  fifty  million  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 

The  dream  of  health  must  fade  to  death, 
And  hearts  must  bleed  that  held  high  hope ; 

Upon  the  air  there's  holy  breath, 

The  troubled  souls'  submissive  prayer, 

For  fifty  million  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 

Our  hero's  dead !     The  voice  of  woe, 

Where  angels  paused  to  see  men  pray, 
Now  starts  the  soul's  most  tender  flow ; 

And  this  is  love  when  strong  men  weep  : 
For  fifty  million  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 

He  came  to  bless  the  bridal-flower 

When  Man  and  Truth  were  wed  for  aye ; 
He  bore  of  worth  the  magic  power, 

The  love  within  his  soul  so  great, 
That  fifty  millions  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 

Sad,  sad  the  night,  dark  breaks  the  morrow, 

To  see  repentance  make  its  way ! 
The  curse  is  won,  deep  burns  the  sorrow, 

The  bitter  fruit  our  sin  must  bear; 
Though  fifty  million  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 

Our  nation's  weakness  laid  him  low, 

Him  whom  the  world  had  learned  to  love ; 
He  fell  beneath  the  hellish  blow, 

And  fostered  lust  has  dug  the  grave ; 
Yet  fifty  million  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 

The  pang  has  come.     'Tis  holy  ground 

Where  men  shall  kneel  to  kiss  the  rod ; 
In  softer  eyes  new  light  is  found ; 

Pure  love  is  won  from  pardoned  sin ; 
For  fifty  million  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 


158  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD. 

Best,  rest,  Thou  Loved  One  of  the  brave ! 

Gently  rest  in  the  souls  of  men ! 
Our  tears  shall  sanctify  thy  grave, 

And  hearts  on  hearts  record  thy  name  : 
Aye,  fifty  million  hearts  have  bled  to-night ! 


"GOD    REIGNS!" 

BY    WALTER    1UEFFER. 

[From  The  Philadelphia  Press.] 
TO-DAY  a  nation  is  in  tears, 

Unnumbered  prayers  ascend 
To  Him  whom  all  the  world  reveres,  — 

The  nation's  Chieftain,  Friend. 
From  bell-towers  over  all  the  land 

The  solemn  toll  is  heard, 
And  fifty  million  people  stand 

With  souls  profoundly  stirred. 

Far  in  the  West  a  stricken  host 

Bend  o'er  an  open  grave,  — 
The  grave  of  him  whose  truest  boast 

Was  to  be  pure  and  brave. 
Forever  live  on  Memory's  page 

The  sorrows  of  this  day ! 
Time  may  perhaps  the  grief  assuage  — 

We  can  but  wait  and  pray. 

And  when  long  years  have  rolled  around. 

The  prattling  child  of  Now 
Will,  at  this  patriot's  shrine,  be  found 

Renewing  there  his  vow, 
That,  long  as  life  itself  endure, 

His  study  and  his  aim 
Will  be  to  live  as  true  and  pure 

As  he  who  won  such  fame. 

As  soldier,  statesman,  patriot,  man, 

Garfield  will  ever  live  ! 
Though  his  life  was  a  narrow  span, 

He  gave  all  man  could  give ! 
He  gave  his  life  for  Freedom's  cause, 

In  battling  for  the  right ; 
In  struggling  to  maintain  the  laws, 

Fell  in  the  glorious  fight. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD.  150 

God  bless  this  day  —  this  sacred  day  — 

With  useful  lessons  fraught ; 
Bless  it  to  those  who  think  and  pray  — 

To  those  who  will  be  taught ; 
For  Garfield  speaks  from  out  the  grave, 

Speaks  to  a  wandering  race, 
He  tells  them  to  be  good  and  brave, 

And  every  duty  face  ! 

He  tells  them,  too,  with  angel  voice, 

"  God  reigns  !  "  and  then  he  gives 
The  words  tiiat  make  the  land  rejoice  — 

"  The  government  still  lives  !  " 


JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

BY    ARTHUR    WILKINSON    BRICK.1 

HE  began  life  as  a  canal  boy, 

With  scarcely  a  cent  to  his  name, 
Bat  by  virtue  and  manly  honor 

He  rose  to  distinction  and  fame. 
He  was  blessed  with  a  Christian  mother, 

Who  labored,  with  all  her  might, 
To  teach  him  to  hate  all  evil, 

To  pray,  and  to  love  to  do  right. 
In  the  war  of  the  great  rebellion 

He  rose  to  a  General's  rank  ; 
His  mother's  teachings  he  never  forgot, 

To  meanness  he  never  sank ; 
His  morals  were  perfectly  spotless ; 

His  honor  was  bright  as  the  sun ; 
He  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  ladder, 

Although  at  the  foot  he  begun. 
He  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  nation ; 

He  was  honored  in  every  way ; 
He  was  looked  upon  by  the  people 

As  the  greatest  man  of  his  day. 
He  was  shot  by  a  cruel  assassin. 

There  were  millions  of  hearts  that  bled 
When  the  sad,  sad  news  was  made  known  to  the  world  : 

James  Abram  Garfield  is  dead. 

1  Arthur  Wilkinson  Brick,  aged  14  years.    Died  suddenly  of  diphtheria,  Jan.  16, 1882.    He 
urasthe  son  of  Riley  A.  Brick,  Esq.,  of  New  York  City. 


160  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


ENTERED   INTO   REST. 

BY    SARAH    K.    BOLTON. 

[From  The  Independent.] 

SOLDIER,  statesman,  scholar,  friend, 

Brother  to  the  lowliest  one, 
Life  has  come  to  sudden  end, 

But  its  work  is  grandly  done. 
Toil  and  cares  of  state  are  o'er ; 
Pain  and  struggle  come  no  more. 
Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

Nations  weep  about  thy  bier, 

Flowers  are  sent  by  queenly  hands  ; 

Bring  the  poor  their  homage  here, 
Come  the  great  from  many  lands. 

Be  thy  grave  our  Mecca,  hence, 

With  its  speechless  eloquence  ; 
Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

Winter  snows  will  wrap  thy  mound, 
Spring  will  send  its  wealth  of  bloom, 

Summer  kiss  the  velvet  ground, 
Autumn  leaves  lie  on  thy  tomb  : 

Home  beside  this  inland  sea, 

Where  thou  lov'dst  in  life  to  be ; 
Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

Strong  for  right,  in  danger  brave, 
Tender  as  with  woman's  heart, 

Champion  of  the  fettered  slave, 
Of  the  people's  life  a  part. 

To  be  loved  is  highest  fame. 

Garfield,  an  immortal  name  ! 

Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 

All  thy  gifted  words  shall  be 

Treasured  speech  from  age  to  age, 

Thy  heroic  loyalty 
Be  a  country's  heritage. 

Mentor  and  thy  precious  ties 

Sacred  in  the  nation's  eyes. 

Rest  thee  by  Lake  Erie. 


THK   POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 


161 


From  thy  life  and  death  shall  come 

An  ennobled,  purer  race, 
Honoring  labor,  wife,  and  home, 

More  of  cheer  and  Christian  grace. 
Kindest,  truest,  till  that  day 
When  He  rolls  the  stone  away, 
Rest  thee  by  Lake  Eric. 


LONDON,  ENGLAND. 


OUR   MARTYR   PRESIDENT. 


BY    REV.    N.    VANSANT. 


THE  nation's  hero,  hail ! 
The  nation's  bitter  wail 

Bends  the  blue  sky  ! 
Shot  by  a  dastard  hand* 
The  surging,  seething  land 
Mutters  in  high  demand, 

"  The  wretch  shall  die !  " 

The  nation's  patient,  hail ! 
Laid  low,  a  victim  pale 

Of  murd'rous  art ; 
Alternate  hope  and  fear, 
Alternate  smile  and  tear, 
Disclose  in  tokens  dear 

The  nation's  heart. 

Still  the  meek  sufferer,  hail ! 
Must  human  means  all  fail, 

Healing  to  give  ? 
"  Alas ! "  the  hushed  winds  sigh, 
"  Alas !  "  sad  millions  cry, 
Contrast  of  Faith's  reply, 

"He  yet  shall  live!" 


The  nation's  victor,  hail ! 
Men  still  with  God  prevail, 

Princes  in  power  ; 
Brave  will  that  death  defied  ! 
Brave  wife  breasting  the  tide  ! 
Bold  prayer  turning  aside 

The  fatal  hour ! 

Prido  of  the  nations,  hail ! 
All  hearts  the  tragic  tale 

Moves  e'en  as  one  ; 
Rulers  and  peoples  grieve, 
Kings,  queens,  their  tributes  give. 
All  join  the  cry,  "  Long  live 

Columbia's  sonj. " 

Our  honored  chieftain,  hail ! 
Ascending  high  the  scale 

Of  earthly  fame  ; 
The  land  with  joy  ablaze, 
Millions  their  paeans  raise ! 
To  God  be  all  the  praise, 

In  Jesus'  name ! 


The  new-crowned  martyr,  hail ! 
Death's  deep  and  shadowy  vale 

Is  safely  passed ; 
The  end  delayed  so  long, 
But  made  the  nation  strong, 
And  heightens  glory's  song 

In  heaven  at  last ! 
WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON,  8.  I.,  Sept.  21,  1881. 


1()2  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GAR  FIELD. 


IN  MEMORIAM  — J.  A.  G. 

BY    LUCY    M.    CREEMER. 

[From  The  New  Haven  Kegister.] 
CONSIGNED  to  earth ;  the  last  sad  rite  is  o'er ; 

The  solemn  bells  at  length  have  ceased  to  toll ; 
The  stricken  nation  sits  with  bended  head, 
For,  still  reverberating  through  its  soul, 
Are  mournful  echoes  of  the  bells'  sad  chime, 
And  only  can  the  healing  hand  of  Time 
Reach  down  to  comfort  us. 

That  great,  calm  soul  has  found  the  Infinite ; 

The  brave,  true  heart,  that  only  sought  His  will 
And  all  the  nation's  good,  shall  throb  no  more ; 

Its  work  is  done.     The  finite  hand  is  still. 
But  is  he  dead;  he  whom  the  nation  weeps? 
Be  still,  and  watch,  ye  sufferers,  he  but  sleeps ; 
Time's  hand  shall  comfort  us. 

For  he  has  left,  as  priceless  legacy, 

A  spotless  fame,  a  tender  love  and  pure ; 

A  deep  devotion  to  a  noble  cause, 
Undying  faith  that  Right  shall  still  endure ; 

And  after  patience,  hope  and  courage  lie 

Bereft  of  strength  and  only  wait  to  die, 
Knows  Time  shall  comfort  us. 

Oh,  from  those  heights  beyond  our  ken, 

To  which  thine  eagle  soul  hath  flown, 
Canst  thou  look  back  to  haunts  of  men, 

And  know  us  as  we  would  be  known? 
Then  shalt  thou  see  how  deep  our  love 

For  thee,  and  all  thy  heart  loved  best; 
Our  earnest  lives  would  gladly  prove 

The  nation  honors  thy  bequest. 

From  the  dim  future  comes  a  potent  voice  : 
The  nation  shall  not  cry  to  God  in  vain  ; 
He  did  not  die  who  seemed  to  sleep,  in  death, 

I  called  him,  and  he  came,  that  he  might  reign 
In  grander  state ;  the  little  pomp  below 
Was  not  for  such  as  he,  "  'tis  empty  show  " 

Time's  hand  shall  comfort  thee !  " 
,  MASS.,  Sept.  27, 1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO   GARFIELD. 
THAT  NIGHT. 

BY    WILLIAM    T.    HORNADAY. 
[From  The  Rochester  Democrat  and  Chronicle.] 
IT  was  in  the  midnight  stillness, 

While  the  land  in  slumber  lay, 
That  the  King  of  Shadows  conquered, 

And  a  great  soul  passed  away. 
Then  the  searchers  after  comets 

Saw  a  meteor  afar, 
Flash  from  Elberon  to  heaven, 

And  become  a  blazing  star. 
Soon  the  death-knell  broke  the  silence  — 

Ne'er  so  sad  save  once  before  — 
And  the  still  air  throbbed  and  quivered 

With  the  message  that  it  bore. 
Soon  was  heard  o'er  all  the  nation 

This  slow-tolling  midnight  knell, 
And  upon  a  nation's  millions 

Deeper  gloom  than  midnight  fell. 
Every  bell  from  every  steeple 

Told  its  grief  with  iron  tongue, 
Till  the  weird  and  dreadful  jangle 

Found  no  heart  with  grief  unwrung. 
"Garfield's  dead  3  "     The  nation,  waking, 

Hears  the  news  with  aching  heart, 
And  the  nations  'cross  the  ocean 

In  our  mourning  bear  a  part. 

"He  is  dead!  "  With  godlike  patience, 

With  no  murmur  at  his  fate, 
With  the  courage  of  a  hero, 

In  his  manhood  grand  and  great,  — 
He  has  gone  from  earthly  anguish, 

Where  assassins  cannot  quest, 
Where  we  know  our  noble  Lincoln 

Welcomes  him  to  heaven's  resU 

He  is  gone ;  his  life  has  left  us 

With  its  lessons  great  and  good ; 
But  the  memory  remaineth 

Where  the  bright  example  stood ; 
And  that  star  which  to  the  heavens 

Shot  from  earth  that  dismal  night, 
.    O'er  a  world  made  purer,  better, 

Evermore  shall  shed  its  light. 


164  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 

THE     SUMMONS. 

BY    J.     G.    DE    STYAK. 

[From  The  San  Francisco  EveniugCall.] 
FROM  the  region  of  light  beyond  the  cloud 
The  voice  of  God's  angel  cries  aloud  : 
Rise,  warrior,  cast  off  the  thrall  of  clay, 
For  thee  is  dawning  a  brighter  day. 

"  Courage,  brave  Captain,  do  not  fear; 
Thy  great  Commander  needs  thee  here  !  " 
He  buckled  his  armor  for  the  fray, 
Like  a  gallant  soldier,  and  passed  away. 

The  sword  of  man  to  polluting  rust ; 
The  hand  that  wielded  it  gone  to  dust. 
The  soldier  of  man  lies  'neath  the  sod, 
The  spirit's  enrolled  in  the  army  of  God. 

Leave  we  the  soldier  to  his  rest 
And  turn  to  the  nation,  woe-opprest; 
Who  can  measure  the  awful  grief 
Of  Freedom's  children  for  their  chief  ? 

It  is  not  alone  the  wife  who  cries, 

Not  only  the  orphan's  wails  arise, 

Nor  the  aged  mother,  with  accent  wild, 

Asks,  "  Who  has  murdered  my  darling  child?" 

But  every  heart  in  this  broad  land 
Felt  the  cruel  stab  of  the  murd'rous  hand  ; 
All  the  winds  that  blow  o'er  the  rolling  main 
Bring  on  their  wings  a  cry  of  pain. 

Oh,  Fate  seems  hard  in  its  dread  decrees  — 
As  relentless  to  man  as  the  cruel  seas ! 
Oh,  why  should  the  gallant  ship  be  lost, 
And  the  commonest  raft  not  tempest-tost? 

O  ravenous  grave,  are  the  great  and  good 
The  only  ones  tliou  wilt  take  for  food? 
For  thee  must  our  choicest  fruits  be  ta'en 
And  the  finest  of  all  our  flock  be  slain? 

We  bitterly  cry  to  Thee,  'neath  the  rod  — 
Why  should  this  come  to  us,  O  our  God? 
Shall  the  worthless  live,  while  the  true  and  brave 
Moulder  to  dust  in  the  silent  grave? 
SEPT.  20,  1881. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GARFIELD.  165 


GOD  SPEED  THE  TRAIN. 

BY  CHARLES    J.    BEATTIE. 

[From  The  Chicago  Tribune.] 

Gou  speed  the  train  !     A  People's  hope ; 

And  the  Nation  held  its  breath 
As  the  President  sped  in  his  lifeward  march 
Away  from  the  realms  of  Death  — 

Away  from  the  torrid  lea, 
Away  from  the  swamp 
And  the  chill  death-damp, 
To  sunshine  by  the  sea. 

God  speed  the  train  !     Oh,  save  him  now  ! 

For  his  safety  a  Nation's  prayer 
Is  whispering  forth,  from  South  to  North, 
Faith's  incense  on  the  air 

For  voyage  safe  and  free  — 
Sweet  hope  and  faith, 
That  call  from  death 
To  life  by  the  gladd'ning  sea. 

God  speed  the  train !     A  People's  prayer 

From  every  heart  and  tongue, 

From  city-street,  from  prairie-farm, 

Through  all  our  country  rung, 

To  save  from  Death's  decree  — 
From  East  to  West, 
One  grand  behest, 

Safe  to  the  soothing  sea. 

God  speed  the  train !     In  solemn  church, 

In  home,  in  shop,  in  store, 
With  suppliant  hearts,  on  bended  knees, 
Our  people  all  implore, 

In  universal  plea, 
A  Nation's  agony  of  grief, 
Jehovah,  save  our  wounded  Chief, 
Beside  the  balmy  sea. 


CHICAGO,  Sept.  7, 1881. 


166  THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES    TO    GAR  FIELD. 

.      TO   AMERICA.     SEPTEMBER   19,    1881. 

BY    HAROLD    BOUGHTON. 

.[From  Century  (Scribner's)  Magazine.] 


Now  the  hard  fight  is  done, 

Manfully  striven, 
And  the  strong  life  is  gone, 

Asked  for  of  Heaven  : 
Droop  all  your  banners  low, 
Toll  the  bed  sad  and  slow, 
All  that  your  grief  can  show 

Let  it  be  given. 


One  there  is  more  than  all 

Bids  you  have  patience,  — 
Sends  at  your  sorrow's  call 

Sad  salutations, 
Comforts  your  grievous  need 
First-born  of  England's  seed, 
England  by  fate  decreed 
Mother  of  nations. 


So  to  the  little  isle 

Fragrant  of  heather, 
Where  the  sweet  roses  smile 

Mid  the  wild  weather, 
Stretch  out  a  constant  hand, 
Linking,  by  God's  command, 
Daughter  and  motherland 

Closer  together. 
OXFORD,  ENGLAND. 


EMBALMED. 

BY    JOHN  OWEN. 

[From  The  Boston  Transcript.]. 

SUFFICE  the  dead  to  let  in  state  remain, 
The  gaze  of  every  curious,  careless  eye. 
His  life,  by  far  more  subtile  alchemy 

Embalmed,  shall  in  our  silent  hearts  retain 

Its  tranquil  place,  in  whitest  vesture  lain, 
Till  gentle  Nature  bid  our  bodies  lie 
In  darkness  of  the  grave's  captivity, 

Waiting  immortal  freedom  to  attain. 

O  brave  and  patient  spirit !  whom  we  mourn 
Not  as  the  craven  who  refuses  to  hope, 
Failing  with  Times's  deep  mysteries  to  cope ; 

We  trust  that  thou,  from  earthly  triumphs  torn, 

Shalt  have  another  and  more  glorious  morn 
When  God's  eternal  gates  to  thee  will  ope. 
CAMBRIDGE. 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    GARFIELD. 


TWO     SONNETS. 


BY    LOUIS    DYER. 


I. 


YET  stands  erect  the  memory  of  his  life, 

Though  hateful  death  has  felled  its  breathing  form, 
Not  him,  but  precious  still,  because  when  warm 

With  all  his  quickening  ardor,  through  the  strife 

Of  fiercest  war,  —   when  in  the  land  was  rife 
The  tumult  of  wild  grief,  — it  braved  the  storm 
And  kept  him  safe  from  evils  threatening  swarm. 

Oh,  piteous  fate,  that  drove  the  envenomed  knife 

Of  jaundiced  envy  through  a  miscreant's  heart, 
When  peace  had  led  a  righteous  man   to  power. 

Oh,  piteous  fate,  that  lent  a  new-found  art 
And  nerved  a  craven  fool  with  strength  to  cower 
Behind  him,  prompting,  when  the  accursed  hour 

For  murder  came,  a  devil  in  his  part. 


II. 

Be  comforted,  sad  lady,  if  comfort  be  — 

When  life  has  lost  all  light,  when  hope  is  dead, 
When  death  has  found  thy  life  and  joy  has  fled 

Affrighted  from  the  woe  encircling  thee — 

In  weeping  eyes  which  thou  shall  never  see, 
In  aching  hearts  that  now  are  filled  with  dread, 
O'er  which,  till  now,  no  chilling  grief  had  spread. 

In  woeful  concord  enmities  agree; 

To  mourn  with  thee  the  struggling  world  stands  still, 

And  commerce  even  forgets  she  has  no  heart. 
The  assassin's  hand  had  fatal  power  to  kill 

A  nation's  hope,  but  not  its  love.     The  art 

Of  pitying  Heaven  new-shapes  this  hideous  ill, 

And  stirs  all  human-kind  to  take  thy  part. 

CAMBRIDGE,  Sept.  23,  1881. 


168 


THE  POETS'    TRIBUTES   TO    OARFIELD. 


GARFIELD   AND   LINCOLN. 

BY  A.  BBONSON  ALCOTT. 

[From  The  Springfield  Republican.] 

AMONG  the  orations  and  'poems  of  yesterday,  or  those  others  which  the  death  of  Garfield 
has  called  forth,  few  can  be  more  remarkable  than  the  ode  written  by  Mr.  Alcott,  of  Concord, 
and  read  at  the  memorial  meeting  held  in  that  town  yesterday.  He  appropriately  recalls  in 
his  title  the  auspicious  custom  of  the  Roman  augurs,  —  than  whom  none  were  more  venerable 
or  prophetic  than  he,  —  when  taking  the  omens  for  the  prosperity  of  the  people  of  Rome,  in 
some 'great  national  crisis,  after  sacrifice  had  been  rightly  performed.  Our  national  sacrifice 
has  been  duly  made  once  more,  as  in  the  death  of  Lincoln,  —  not  by  our  own  act,  but  in  the 
mystery  of  the  Divine  Powers  themselves,  who  best  know  how  to  choose  an  unblemished 
victim,  and  when  the  costly  rite  must  be  celebrated.  Yet  from  these  sad  offerings  the  seer 
draws  salutary  omens,  as  he  examines  the  records  of  the  sacrifice,  and  points  the  lesson  of 
that  devoted  life. 


CARMEN  AUGURATUM  AU8PICAN8. 

i 
A  Prophetic  Ode  after  Sacrifice. 


O  THOU,  my  countiy,  ope  thine  eyes 
Toward  what  the  Future  holds  for  thee. 

See  tile  brave  stripling  rise 

From  lowliest  hut  and  poverty, 

From  stair  to  stair ; 
Nor  hardly  fix  his  footsteps  there> 

Ere  he  another  round 

Doth  upward  bound ; 
Still,  step  by  step,  to  higher  stair 

Forward  he  leaps, 
Broader  his  vision  sweeps, 
Till  he  the  loftiest  summit  gain 
A  people's  hope  to  further  and  maintain. 


But  lo !  as  oft  befalls  the  great, 

The  wise  and  good, 

There  for  a  moment  poised  he  stood,  — 
Then  passed  beyond  the  gazing  crowd 
Within  the  folded  cloud. 
Wasted  by  weary  pains 
His  pale  remains 


Now  lie  in  state, 
Swathed  in  his  bloody  shroud ; 
Peoples  and  kingdoms  bathed  in  tears  : 
Hear'st  thou  the  welcome  greet  his  cars, 
As  he  his  holier  throne  doth  take  ? 
This  Brave  of  fifty  manly  years, 
Dies  he  not  now  for  thy  dear  sake  ? 


Oh,  follow  then  his  leading  far, 
Be  thou  thyself  the  morning  star, 
Beaming  thy  glories  round  the  world, 
His  name   emblazoned  on  thy  flag  un- 
furled ! 

What  speak  the  myriad  bells, 
Tolling  this  day  their  mournful  knells  ? 
"  Ne'er  may  our  weight  be  swung, 
Never  our  iron  tongue 
Slavery's  base  might  extol 
In  town  or  capitol ; 
But  o'er  a  people  brave  and  free, 
Ring  out  in  happier  symphony 
Garfield  and  Liberty !  " 


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